Tangled up in knots someone else tied
by TotallyJeannius
Summary: A collection of stories exploring the character of Margaret Langston and her relationship with the Langston family. Takes place pre- and post-series. Inspired by episode 2.10 "Prophecy".
1. Chapter 1: A Boy Called Ben

"There are things which happen and leave no discernable trace, are not spoken or written of, though it would be very wrong to say that subsequent events go on indifferently, all the same, as though such things had never been." -_Possession_, A.S. Byatt

Chapter I: A Boy Called Ben

Margaret makes her way down the path to the small wooden gate hidden amongst the vines of the garden wall at the back of the large estate. She quietly undoes the latch and pushes the gate open just far enough to peek into the garden. Once certain that no one has seen her, Margaret slips into the garden and closes the gate behind her. The humid July air is thick with the scent of gardenias and standing barefoot in the middle of a seemingly endless sea of green grass is a tall, young man. His dark hair absorbs the rays of the afternoon sun and the sound of his laughter is bright and clear, even at this distance, as he and his wire fox terrier roughhouse with each other. She has no way of knowing it then, but the sight before her this moment is one she will carry with her for many, many years. As the sound of her footsteps becomes noticeable, the young man jumps up and his already smiling face brightens even more.

"Well go get her, Huckleberry!" he says excitedly, and a flash of white fur cuts through the plush grass before materializing at her feet with its tail wagging furiously. She kneels down and reaches out with both hands to give the dog a good scratch behind his ears. Without fail, Huckleberry rolls over on his back, and she can only giggle as she gladly complies with his demand to have his belly rubbed. Benjamin grabs his shoes and runs over to them. He kneels down beside Margaret and joins in on the fun, the sound of his laughter mingling with hers. When Huckleberry decides he's more interested in the squirrel scampering up the magnolia tree, Margaret looks over to where Benjamin is pulling on his shoes and asks him what he's smiling about. But he only answers her with an even wider smile and a mischievous glint in his brown eyes. He tells her she'll find out soon enough and immediately takes off running, with Huckleberry right on his heels. Margaret gets up as quickly as she can and runs after them.

She runs past the great house and arrives at the stables, which had been converted years ago into a garage to accommodate Edward Langston's newfound hobby of expanding his ever-growing car collection. She finds Benjamin standing beside the always impeccably polished Ford Model T, with Huckleberry already comfortably stretched out across the passenger seat.

"Ta da!" Benjamin gestures towards the car, but Margaret just frowns at him in confusion as she tries to fix her messy pigtails, which have unraveled from their once neat braids following her run through the Langston estate. Finally, she decides it's a lost cause and unties the white ribbons and puts them in the pockets of her dress.

"How in the world is this a surprise? Your father has had this car for years," she says, slightly exasperated.

"Yes, but I learned something interesting about this car a few days ago that I thought I'd share with you, little Miss Anderson," he says in a tone of mock frustration. "It just so happens that good ole Edward Langston bought this car in 1927, the same year that the last Model T was produced. So, seeing that it's your birthday and all, I thought you should get a chance to drive a car that's the same age as you are," Benjamin replies, smiling in amusement as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out the keys to the Model T.

"Your father would be furious if he found out!" she exclaims.

"And Warren would be even more furious, especially since he thinks this car already belongs to him and he's never even driven it," Benjamin says with a grin.

She doesn't want Benjamin to get into any trouble and she knows she should talk him out of whatever he's got planned. But the idea of taking the car for a joyride down to the lake sounds too good to refuse, so Margaret eagerly hops into the passenger seat. Huckleberry climbs into her lap and Benjamin drives the car out of the garage and down the estate's long driveway. Once they're outside the main gate, Benjamin puts the car in park and the two of them switch places. She's never driven a car before and her hands twitch with nervousness as she prepares to release the brake. But Benjamin is a wonderful teacher, and somehow she manages to drive the car down to the oak tree by the lake without incident. Benjamin hops out of the car and runs over to open her door. The adrenaline is still coursing through her and she feels rooted to the spot, with her hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly that her knuckles have turned white. She can barely hear Benjamin congratulating her on a job well done and wishing her a happy eleventh birthday. It's only when he reaches behind the driver's seat to grab the picnic basket she didn't realize was in the backseat and his arm brushes against hers that she lets out a laugh and jumps out of the car to follow Benjamin and Huckleberry down to the dock.

* * *

They're sitting cross-legged on the picnic blanket with the dog sprawled on its side hours later. The sandwiches are long gone but there's still plenty of lemonade left. The oppressive summer heat continues to die down as the sun sinks lower and lower. In every direction, the fireflies have come out. Margaret is still bursting with excitement about her first driving lesson. She can't stop grinning until she realizes that Benjamin has been standing at the edge of the dock for several minutes. His back is to her and he's uncharacteristically silent and still. There's tension in his shoulders, so similar to the tension she's seen in her dad's shoulders over the last few years. She stands and wipes the crumbs off her dress before putting her hands in her pockets. A sense of dread settles into her stomach. _Benjamin's never this quiet_. She comes to stand next to him, but doesn't say anything or look at him. They both stare out at the lake, silently watching for the fireflies. Benjamin's usually cheerful face is pensive, as if he's debating whether or not to speak. But eventually he is the one to break the silence.

"Can I ask you something? You don't have to answer if you don't want to, it's okay." There's concern in his voice, and if she could meet his eyes, she knows she'd see concern there too. She can't explain it, but somehow, she just knows exactly what he's about to ask her. She's sick with worry about how he'll react when he finally hears the truth from her. But he deserves to know the truth, so she summons up what courage she has and just nods.

"What happened at the barn that day?" he asks softly. She knows what day he's referring to. Benjamin had found her crying inside the barn that afternoon, and she had wanted to tell him everything right then and there, but she didn't know how to explain what she had witnessed. She still doesn't know how to explain any of it. Instead, she had quickly wiped her eyes and run away from the barn as fast as she could. Benjamin had called out after her, but thankfully he hadn't followed her. For months now, she had somehow managed to keep what she saw that day a secret. But the loneliness of carrying such a huge secret had eaten away at her. Even the sound of the water from the falls near the old saw mill could no longer lull her to sleep as it once had. She knows that she needs to talk to someone about what happened that day, but she had decided that that someone could not be her dad. He could never know that she had been there.

"You can tell me anything, Margaret. I want you to know that."

She slowly sits and stares at her shaking hands. "I know," she tells him, her voice barely above a whisper. "Just…promise me you won't tell my dad. Please, he can never know." Her voice trembles with desperation and a painful tightness builds in her chest. Benjamin doesn't say anything as he and Huckleberry silently slide over to where she sits. Her hands are clasped tightly in her lap to prevent them from shaking. Benjamin places a hand over hers and gently lifts her chin so he can look her in the eye.

"I promise," he tells her, and she believes him.

She takes a deep breath and keeps her voice as steady as she can. "Your father came over to the farm that morning. It was still dark out. He stormed into the kitchen and I could hear him telling my dad that the demons had come back again the night before. My dad had shut the kitchen door, but I could still hear them talking about how to go about killing the men this time. I snuck out my bedroom window, and I ran to the barn. I wanted to do something, but I didn't know what to do. And the two men were already chained up against the barn wall, so there was nothing I could do. I thought, if they could just get away, maybe they'd stay away. Maybe all of this would finally be over. And my dad would finally be…free. But even if they could escape, I knew they wouldn't get far. The man with the leg brace…" her voice trails off. She takes a few deep breaths, willing herself to continue. "I've never heard anyone cry like that before. It was like he was howling. The other man…he must have been scared too, but he kept telling the man with the leg brace that everything would be okay and to just let go. He just kept repeating it. And I don't know why I did it, but I closed my eyes too and I just listened to him repeating the words over and over. Then it got really quiet. I opened my eyes, and the men were both gone. They'd just vanished. And I don't think they'll ever come back again."

She's finally done it, finally told someone about that day. She waits, but the sensation of relief doesn't come. Benjamin's hands tighten around hers. He's staring at the lake and looking the most forlorn she's ever seen him. When he looks back at her, there's something different about the way he looks at her. And she does not like it. Something inside her snaps then. There's a deafening ringing in her ears, and she can feel hot tears streaming down her face. She knows she's screaming but everything sounds muffled, as if she's underwater.

"I wish I hadn't seen any of it! I had already seen those men burn to death, but this was even worse. Because they wanted to die, Benjamin! It was like I was watching them commit suicide. And do you know what scares me the most? It's that there was a moment in the barn where I understood what it is to feel completely hopeless, to feel like nothing good would ever happen again. It was when I opened my eyes. Those men were gone, but I was still here. And I wished…it was only for a moment…but I wished I could have just disappeared too."

It's the middle of summer but she feels cold and numb all over. Suddenly, she feels as though she might faint. Everything starts to go black until she feels Benjamin wrap his arms around her slender frame and pull her into a crushing embrace. He cradles her head against his chest, and his fingers close around her messy hair in an angry fist. "Don't ever say that!" It's the first time he's ever sounded angry and scared when speaking to her. It actually takes him several breaths before he finally calms down enough to tell her the kindest words she's heard in a long time. "You're my best friend," he whispers. "I don't want anything bad to ever to happen to you."

She can't hold back a sob and buries her face in his shirt. "I just feel like there's something wrong with me, like there's something rotten inside me now and I'll never be able to get rid of it," she admits through an onslaught of tears. "I just want everything to go back to the way it was."

Benjamin doesn't say anything, but he wraps his arms around her a little tighter. She cries until she can't cry anymore. Against the crown of her head, Benjamin's breaths are deep and steady, and eventually she's breathing in time with him. She had been so scared to tell either her dad or Benjamin the truth. She had seen those factory workers die over and over again until they had finally vanished into thin air. For months, she's felt like she's not normal anymore, like some hideous creature that needs to be hidden away. And she doesn't want Benjamin to ever think those things about her too. But as Benjamin continues to stroke her hair, she feels the worry inside her dissipate and she reminds herself never to doubt Benjamin again. She can feel one of her fears begin to subside only for a new one to rise up in its place.

"I'm so sorry, Benjamin. I'm so sorry that I keep telling you all these horrible things, especially about your father," she blurts out. After all, she had been the one to tell him about what happened at the factory that day three years ago. And she had regretted it as soon as the words left her mouth. She had been so angry and confused and had spoken without any consideration of the consequences. Benjamin hadn't even been at the factory that afternoon. He had gone over to the high school with his friends to watch the varsity basketball squad practice before that evening's game. He was supposed to go straight home afterwards for dinner, but instead he'd gone to find Margaret down by the river near the factory. He had been in a great mood, and she had been the one to spoil it. She had called Edward Langston an evil man and watched the mirth leave Benjamin's eyes. He had stared at her in stunned disbelief before silently turning and walking away. He had avoided her for a few weeks after that night and now, as his arms drop back down to his side and he takes a few steps away from her, she wonders if he'll avoid being around her again. _How long will he be mad at me this time?_

She goes back to staring out at the lake and wishes she hadn't said anything. She can hear Benjamin rummaging around behind her and it makes her wince. _He wants to leave, wants to get away from me as soon as possible._ She expects to hear him walk back towards the car, but instead his footsteps get closer and closer.

"Here," he says, handing her the last of the lemonade. He still looks a bit melancholy, but he doesn't look angry. She sips her drink silently and watches as he kneels down to rinse out a Mason jar in the lake.

"I'm glad you told me, Margaret. I don't know if you feel any better now that you've told someone. I hope you do. I just…I feel better knowing you're not carrying all that on your own anymore."

"So, you're not angry with me?" she asks, chewing her bottom lip nervously.

"No, of course not," he replies without hesitation. "I wish none of it was true, but you can't change the past. And I don't blame you for being angry at Edward. I don't know if he's a bad man. I mean, I know he's not a good man, but that doesn't necessarily make him a bad man. Anyway," he says, sitting down with his feet dangling off the edge of the dock, "I suppose I'll never truly be able to hate him. But I don't think I'll ever love him beyond the very least that a son owes his father."

She sits down next to Benjamin, letting her feet dangle above the water. It isn't the first time she's marveled at Benjamin's goodness. She wonders if any of that goodness has rubbed off on her, because while she may despise Edward Langston, even after all the bad things he's put her dad through, she does not want Benjamin to hate his father. She thinks of her dad and how, despite all the awful things he'd done, she still loves him very much.

She's so lost in her thoughts that she hadn't noticed what Benjamin had been doing with the Mason jar until he sets it down between the two of them and Huckleberry suddenly takes an interest in it.

"That's for you," he tells her with a lopsided smile. She brings the jar up to eye level and can only stare at it in wonder. Benjamin's always been the expert when it comes to catching fireflies and the jar is full of them. Her eyes fill with tears, but they aren't tears of anger or fear. Benjamin's looking through the jar from the other side, and through a seemingly infinite glowing field of fireflies, his kind, brown eyes are looking directly into hers as he whispers, "Happy birthday, Margaret."

She can't explain it, but it feels as though something she thought she'd lost forever has been returned to her.

* * *

It's a clear, starry night as they make their way back to Arcadia. Margaret sits in the passenger seat with her jar of fireflies and Huckleberry curled up in a ball in her lap as Benjamin drives the Model T. He whistles a happy tune as he drives through the town square, and it makes Margaret think of her dad.

"My dad used to whistle all the time," she says with a hint of sadness in her voice.

"Yeah, I remember that too." Benjamin may be Edward Langston's son, but he had always enjoyed being on the factory floor. The factory would never be his responsibility, but he has a natural ease with everyone and a genuine curiosity about the workers and the products they made. He'd spent a lot of time with her dad, who never minded the company of an eager pupil, even if Benjamin's lathe work had more to do with makeshift baseball bats than handcrafted dining sets. "He's a good man. I don't have any doubts about that. And he's a good father, nothing like good ole Edward Langston."

She smiles at Benjamin. He loves her dad as much as she does, and it's just one of a multitude of things that endears Benjamin to her. Her dad is the only parent she's ever known. It's just been the two of them for as long as she can remember, and while it never felt like anything was missing, Benjamin just fit into their lives like he was always meant to be there. The Langstons, on the other hand, feel more like a collection of characters from various classic novels or like one of those families from a giant oil painting hanging in a manor house somewhere in the English countryside, rather than an actual family. There was always a sense of disconnect between the Langstons and the rest of Arcadia. And from the way Benjamin talks about his family, she suspects that sense of disconnect exists between the Langstons as well.

"I still think it's strange that you call him "good ole Edward Langston". My dad's always been "Dad". I can't even imagine calling him anything else," Margaret says.

Benjamin chuckles at that. He can't deny that his parents have the strangest rules when it comes to how people, even members of one's own family, were to be addressed. Pet names were definitely off limits in the Langston household. Even "Father" and "Dad" were treated like pet names. He can still recall the morning he ran up to the dining table and greeted his father with an excited, "Hi dad!" Edward Langston had slammed the newspaper down and immediately reprimanded his three-year-old son. Ever since that day, Benjamin had followed his mother's example and addressed his father as either "Edward" or "Sir". The same rule went for his sisters. As always, the same rules did not apply to Warren.

"Well, little Miss Anderson, we have very different relationships with our very different fathers. I don't have any memories of your mother, but I'm certain your father loved her very much. I'm sure of it, because I know how much he loves you. But Edward's not like that. The Langston name may mean something in a small town like Arcadia, but it's nothing compared to a family with old money from Chicago. Edward will always have a chip on his shoulder about that. As far as I'm concerned, he put that chip on his own shoulder all by himself the day he decided to marry for status. He may have chosen her because of the McCormick name or maybe because she happened to be the prettiest one. Unbeknownst to him and luckily for me, she also happened to be the one who would make the best mother."

Like every other girl and woman in Arcadia, Margaret is in constant awe of Caroline Langston, the effortlessly elegant, beautiful blonde socialite from the big city of Chicago. But unlike everyone else in Arcadia, Margaret has the advantage of hearing about Caroline Langston from Benjamin. He absolutely adores his mother, and it makes Margaret happy to know that he has a good relationship with one of his parents.

"Speaking of my mother, she's planning her annual end-of-summer party and I overheard my sisters saying that there'll be a 12-piece orchestra this year. So, maybe this will finally be the year that _the engagement_ is announced. My money's on Susan Edgerton finally winning the Mrs. Warren Langston Sweepstakes," Benjamin tells her with an exuberant laugh.

In the two years since Warren Langston had turned 30, according to Benjamin, there had been an endless parade of families inviting themselves to dinner at the Langston estate. Suddenly, it seemed as if every family within a hundred miles had a daughter or a niece they wanted to introduce to Arcadia's most eligible bachelor. It was after one particularly disastrous dinner that Benjamin had derisively labeled any discussion about Warren's marriage prospects as "The Mrs. Warren Langston Sweepstakes". Margaret had burst into laughter almost immediately. The sight of Benjamin pacing back and forth on her front lawn, still dressed in his pristine white dinner jacket and grumbling in frustration as Huckleberry had scampered alongside him, had only added to the hilarity. Benjamin had given it his best effort, but he had been unable to remain cross, and the two of them had dissolved into a fit of giggles that had only resulted in both of them getting the hiccups and laughing even harder.

"Do you really think so? Do you think this will finally be the year?" she asks excitedly.

Benjamin shrugs as he steers the car over a hill. "Your guess is as good as mine. You could always sneak through the garden gate on the night of the party and we could find out together," he says.

He turns the car off the main road and down the small drive that leads to the Andersons' farm. It's so quiet that Margaret can hear the water from the falls. The porch light is on, but she knows her dad isn't at home. He had told her that morning that he would be working late at the factory, and while she hadn't said anything, she had been upset when he left for work. He hadn't wished her a happy birthday, and as she watched her dad walk out the door, she had felt both anger and hatred towards Edward Langston and his factory for taking yet one more thing away from her. She had gathered the dishes from the breakfast table and put them in the sink. But instead of washing the dishes after breakfast like she always did, she had looked out the window to where the barn stood in clear view. She had needed to get out of the house and had wandered into town. As Benjamin brings the car to a stop in front of her house, she realizes the unwashed dishes will still be waiting for her exactly where she left them. She sits there staring at the empty porch, not quite ready to go inside. Benjamin turns the engine off and as he begins to ask her what's the matter, she quickly turns to him and asks "Do you ever wish you could get out of Arcadia?"

She doesn't know if he's more taken aback by the suddenness of her movement or by the question she's just asked. His brow furrows slightly and he simply nods. "I do. And I know I'll get my chance in a few years." He leans back and runs a hand through his hair. "He's never said it, but Edward's always made it clear that, as the eldest son and heir, Warren will inherit everything. Evelyn, Alice, and Laura would have to marry for their fortunes, and I would simply have to make my own. And he never had any intention of assisting me in the slightest. And that's fine with me." He pauses for a moment, as if he's carefully weighing out his words.

"It would be so easy to hate Warren or envy him the way my sisters do. But after you told me about what my father did that day, it was as if I finally realized something I had always known but had never really understood." He takes a deep breath and looks away from her. He stares out the car window to where the barn is just visible beyond the house. "Edward's not a good man, but he is my father. And some part of me loves him and always will. But I'm not proud to be called his son, not like how I'm proud…tremendously proud…to be called my mother's. You see, my sisters want our father's attention and his approval, and Warren's always had those things, probably just takes them for granted. But me…I don't think all that highly of my father. So, I suppose those things don't really mean very much to me."

He turns his head to look at her, looking slightly embarrassed for having said the words out loud, but she's looking at him with those beautiful, large eyes and there's no judgment in them. He smiles and hesitantly takes hold of her hand, running his thumb across the soft skin of her knuckles. Her hand is so small compared to his. "What I'm trying to say is, don't feel guilty for telling me about what my father did to those men. I know that you love your dad, that you loved him before the fire, and that even after all _this_ has happened, you still love him. I know it's not easy. I know you're struggling with it. But, my relationship with my father is nothing like what you have with your dad. So, don't feel bad. Because you didn't ruin anything, Margaret. Okay?"

His tone is so reassuring and the sensation of relief she had been waiting for finally comes. She had been so worried that saying anything bad about Edward Langston would drive a wedge between her and Benjamin, and that one day she would inevitably say something that would do irreversible damage. She's so relieved that she can only nod. Benjamin's brow furrows again and he shakes his head. "And I'm sorry," he tells her.

"For what?" Margaret asks incredulously. _What does he have to be sorry about?_

He lets out a sigh and says, "For not speaking to you after you told me about the fire. For making you think I was angry with you. I wasn't mad at you. I was...mad at myself. It wasn't easy hearing about what my father had done. But the worse part was how it didn't really surprise me…that he would choose his money-making factory over the lives of those men. And that's a horrible thing to think about anyone." He shakes his head again. His jaw tenses as he continues, "And I was scared…really scared, that you would hate me. Because I'm Edward Langston's son, and he had done this awful thing and that you and your dad would suffer for it. I thought you'd never want to see me again. And I didn't want that."

Margaret's overwhelmed by this newest wave of affection that she feels towards this wonderful boy. She finds it touching to know that Benjamin worries what she thinks of him, just like she worries what he thinks of her. A small smile tugs at her lip and she squeezes his hand gently, but firmly. "You're my best friend. I could never hate you," she tells him, her voice as clear as a bell in the quiet night. She feels like she's said the right thing when she sees the relief in Benjamin's brown eyes. He pulls her hand towards his lips, and she can feel his smile followed by a feather-light kiss against her knuckles. A blush creeps into her cheeks and her heart is suddenly racing. _This must be how Snow White felt when she saw her handsome prince._

"Well, I can't tell you how happy it makes me to hear you say that, little Miss Anderson," he says in an exaggerated Southern accent. The lightness of his tone makes them both laugh. He lets go of her hand and she opens the car door. Huckleberry immediately jumps out and darts up the porch steps. Margaret grabs the jar of fireflies and she and Benjamin walk towards the house. She's in a light mood until her foot meets the first porch step. She suddenly remembers something Benjamin had said.

"What did you mean earlier?" He freezes at the top of the steps and turns around to face her. She walks up the last two steps and leans against the porch railing. "When you said you'd have the chance to leave Arcadia soon?"

"Oh, right! Well, remember what I said about having to make my own fortune?" he asks as he goes to sit in one of the rocking chairs. Margaret nods and goes to sit in the other rocking chair. She sets the firefly jar on the table between them and looks at Benjamin expectantly, waiting for him to elaborate. "I figure the best way for me to do that is by going to college. I know it's what my mother would want. And it's also what my Grandpa McCormick wants. He said that if I earn a spot at the University of Chicago that he'd pay my tuition. And as you can imagine, good ole Edward Langston was not too pleased to hear about that. He hates the idea of paying for my education, but he hates the idea of his father-in-law paying for my education even more. Just think, Margaret! This is a chance for everyone to get what they want!" he says excitedly.

Margaret smiles but inwardly she's well aware that this means Benjamin will be leaving Arcadia in three years. She gets up and walks to the front of the porch and leans on the railing. _Everyone except me_, she tells herself. Her gloominess must have showed, because Benjamin stands up from the rocking chair and joins her. He leans backwards and rests his elbows on the railing, giving her a sidelong glance.

"I'll write to you from Chicago, you know? After all, I'll be counting on you to tell me about all the mischief the little troublemaker gets himself into," he says, gesturing towards Huckleberry. She watches Huckleberry running around the yard, and her mood lightens slightly.

"I'm happy for you," she says, trying to make her voice match her words. "You're really lucky."

"I've always been lucky," he replies. "It's something I realized in the weeks after you told me about the fire. One afternoon, after one of my boring French lessons, Madame Claudette told me that _benjamin_ is what French people call the youngest child. She said that sometimes Benjamin is the name given to a youngest son, especially if he's a lot younger than his siblings. Apparently it comes from the Bible, something about how Benjamin was the youngest of Jacob's twelve sons. And I guess I'll always remember that because I was twelve years old at the time. It's hard to explain, but somehow, the more I thought about my name, the more I began to understand my parents. Maybe there's a reason why my mother has always been so warm towards me. Maybe it's because she knew that I was the last child she'd ever had. Maybe it explains why my father has always been so distant, because he thought he had everything all planned out. He already had his seventeen year old son and heir and three daughters to marry off by the time I came along. The last thing he wanted was another child. And he doesn't hide his resentment. It doesn't bother me when he directs his resentment towards me. What I can't forgive is when he directs that resentment towards my mother. She takes everything in stride, but I don't know how she does it. I think she knows that Edward sees her as nothing more than a means to an end. That it's the factory that's the great love of his life, not us. For a long time, I envied Warren. But now I just feel sorry for him, because I'll always have the one thing he never did: freedom. Warren's entire life has been meticulously planned out for him. He'll marry whoever my father chooses, and he'll never get to experience the world outside of Arcadia. But I've decided that I'm going to get into the University of Chicago. And I don't know if I'll ever come back to Arcadia."

There's a faraway look in his eyes as he takes in his surroundings. "It's so strange. I've never even seen the ocean, and yet I can imagine it so clearly – the smell of the salt water, the sound of the waves, even the warm sand between my toes. Somehow, I just know that I want to live my life next to the ocean. That's where I'd want to build a life and raise a family and I'd do it all so differently from the way my father did."

His voice is steady and determined, and Margaret truly believes he will have everything he could ever dream of. She's never seen the ocean either, never been anywhere but Arcadia, but the image of Benjamin living somewhere perpetually drenched in the golden California sunlight is so vivid in her mind.

"I'm going to have a great life, Margaret. I've decided that's just how it's going to be. And I'll be a better husband and father than Edward Langston could ever be."

He lets out a soft laugh and looks at her. "If I'm lucky enough to have a son, I think I'd like to name him after your dad."

She can only stare at him, feeling equal parts dismayed and full of affection. "After everything he's done?"

"He's a good man," Benjamin says without any hesitation. "He wanted to do the right thing and he's loyal. Even to people who don't deserve it. Besides, Jacob Langston has a nice ring to it, doesn't it?" he asks with his usual impish grin.

She has to admit the name does have a nice ring to it. She doesn't know what to say. In some ways, Benjamin's kindness and generosity has surprised her. And in other ways, he's the same unfailingly kind young man he's always been. In a teasing tone, she asks, "And what if you have more than one son? What would you name them?"

Benjamin looks somewhat bashful, and Margaret realizes that he's given this quite a bit of thought. "I guess it would depend on what their mother's name is. Maybe we'd give them names that start with the same letter as her name."

She's about to tease him, telling him that it'll be just his luck to end up marrying a girl named Ursula or Zelda, when he looks at her and says, "Although, I have to admit that I'm rather fond of the names Michael and Matthew."

"Well, I'm sure Mary Edgerton will be ecstatic to hear that!" she manages to say through a fit of giggles.

Benjamin looks positively horrified. "Mary, Mary quite contrary Edgerton? Not a chance!"

"Surely, you've noticed that Susan isn't the only Edgerton girl who's hoping to marry a Langston. Mary's probably looking forward to the party at the end of the summer even more than Susan is. And besides, she's very pretty," Margaret counters.

"She's dull," Benjamin protests as Margaret continues to smirk. "Of all the silly girls in Arcadia, you just might be the silliest, little Miss Anderson!"

She doesn't believe for a second that Benjamin has no interest in Mary Edgerton. All the Edgerton girls are considered local beauties, with flawless fair skin and flowing golden hair and shimmering green eyes. Margaret simply smiles and shakes her head in amusement as Benjamin pulls a face. They stand side by side, occasionally elbowing and laughing at each other until Benjamin points out that it's getting late and even the tireless Huckleberry is beginning to yawn. Benjamin gathers the jar of fireflies from the small table and hands it to Margaret.

"I hope you had a nice birthday and that you like the present your dad got you. It's in your bedside table."

She looks up at him in confusion.

"I helped him pick it out," he says proudly. "It has something to do with your name, actually." He crouches down to scoop Huckleberry up, and Margaret reaches out to give him one last scratch behind the ears. She looks up at Benjamin, who looks down at her with such warmth in his brown eyes. For a few seconds, they just smile at each other. Then, in a voice just above a whisper, he tells her, "Call me Ben. My parents would never approve, but it can be our secret."

"Alright…Ben," she whispers shyly. It's the first time she's ever called him by his nickname, but it feels so natural to her. She can't help but relish the idea that she is the only one who calls him Ben. He smiles again and leans in to kiss her cheek. "Good night, Meg," he whispers in her ear and it makes her heart race. She stands on the porch and watches as the car drives down the driveway. Ben's kiss is still warm on her cheek and she feels as if she's floating on a cloud.

* * *

It's almost midnight when she hears her dad return home. Ever since the day of the fire, she would often pretend to be asleep when her dad would come home late after work and look in on her. But tonight, she doesn't pretend. He walks into her room and kneels down by her bed. He gazes at the jar of fireflies on her bedside table before turning to her and tucking a lock of her hair behind her ear.

"How's my beautiful girl?" he asks in his warm, soft-spoken voice. "Did you have a good birthday?"

She answers him with a nod. He smiles, and she could burst into tears from happiness. It's the happiest she's seen him in a while. She sits up and hugs her knees, watching silently as he picks up the open jewelry box beside the twinkling jar of fireflies.

"Do you like your present?" he asks, as he comes to sit on the bed.

"Very much," she replies. She rests her head upon her knees and smiles, recalling her surprise at opening her jewelry box and finding the bracelet inside. It's the most beautiful piece of jewelry she's ever seen: snow-white pearls on a thin silver chain. He smiles, and his eyes are full of tenderness.

"I know it's still a little bit too big for you," he says, taking her hand in his and caressing her tiny wrist with his thumb. "But I have no doubt you'll grow into it in no time at all." He leans forward and kisses her on the forehead as he's done so many times before, and she instantly feels safe and calm. He hands her the jewelry box, and she takes one last look at the bracelet before closing the box and putting it back on the bedside table. She lies back down and looks up at her dad.

"Ben said that the gift has something to do with my name," she says, her voice full of curiosity.

Her dad strokes her hair and nods. "That's right. It was your mother who decided we should name you Margaret, and she chose the most perfect name. Somehow, she just knew what a wonderful person you'd be, because Margaret means pearl. And you're my pearl, my greatest treasure in the whole wide world," he says. His voice is thick with emotion and Margaret's eyes fill with tears. She's never had any doubt that her dad loves her, but to hear him say it out loud overwhelms her. She throws her arms around him and buries her face in his neck. She can hear his relief as he exhales. She feels his hand come up to cradle her head and hears him breathe her in.

"My perfect little pearl," he whispers into her hair.

They may never be able to go back to being like two peas in a pod, but her dad is a good man and he loves her. Ben believes that, believes it without any hesitation. And she knows that she can believe those things again too. Gently, her dad lays her back down and dries her cheeks with his sleeve. "Good night, Meg," he whispers, just as Ben had and kisses her on her forehead once more.

That night, she watches the random twinkling of the fireflies until her eyelids grow heavy. Her mind drifts to a sunny beach somewhere far away from Arcadia. Everything about the place is warm, from the feel of the soft sand between her toes to the breeze rushing through her hair to the feel of her fingers entwined with another's. It feels like a glimpse into the future, and she feels the tiniest spark of hope catching fire from somewhere deep within her. And for the first time in months, the sound of the water from the falls lulls her into a peaceful sleep.


	2. Chapter 2: If Wishes Were Horses

[F]or the world, which seems  
To lie before us like a land of dreams,  
So various, so beautiful, so new,  
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,  
Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain

_-Dover Beach_, Matthew Arnold

Chapter II: If Wishes Were Horses

It's a warm afternoon in August, and Margaret stands on her front porch, mentally preparing herself for Ben's departure to the University of Chicago. As the afternoon drags on, she begins to worry that he might have already left town without saying goodbye. She reassures herself he would never do such a thing, but she still breathes a sigh of relief when his car finally appears.

"Always save the best for last," he says with a smile as he hops out of the car and walks up to the porch. He stops at the bottom of the steps, reaches into his pockets, and holds out his closed fists. "Pick a hand," he says with a playful glint in his brown eyes.

She taps his right hand and he opens it to reveal a coil of stamps.

"For you. So you won't have any excuse not to write me," he teases as she takes the coil of stamps from him, her fingers lightly brushing against his palm.

"And what's in your other hand?" she asks in a similarly teasing tone.

"Well, I guess I won't have any excuse not to write either," he says, revealing another coil of stamps in his left hand, drawing a laugh from her. In a more serious tone, Ben tells her, "I'll write to you just as soon as I'm settled in, Meg, I promise." He pauses for a moment before asking her, "Will you do me a favor?"

"Of course," she replies immediately.

"Will you look in on Huckleberry for me every now and then? Poor fella's bound to be a little lonely while I'm away. I just want to make sure that he has someone looking out for him, and I can't think of anyone better than you," he says with a shy smile.

Ben always had a way of making her feel special, and this moment is no exception. "Of course I will. We'll look after each other," she assures him, her voice sounding far steadier than she actually feels.

He smiles and pulls her into a hug. She closes her eyes and breathes him in, equal parts happy that his dreams are coming true and sad that her best friend is leaving. She looks up to see his smiling face looking down at her. Suddenly, it dawns on her that she's still wrapped in his arms, and for a brief second, she wonders if he might kiss her. The thought causes her heart to race, and she feels the heat rapidly rising in her cheeks. But Ben takes a small step backwards and playfully taps her on the nose, saying that he'll see her at Christmastime. She smiles, doing her best to hide how foolish she feels. And then he surprises her by quickly kissing her on the cheek before turning on his heel and walking back to the car. She stands there feeling a little lightheaded as she watches Ben wave goodbye to her from the car. Her legs feel a bit shaky as she sits down on the porch steps. She stays there long after Ben has driven down the driveway and away from Arcadia. She watches the sunset with butterflies in her stomach and a dreamy look on her face.

* * *

His first letter from Chicago arrives within the week, and she can't help but smile at the thought that she had been the last person he had wanted to see before leaving Arcadia and the first person he had written to. She looks forward to his letters like she's never looked forward to anything else before. After school, she walks home with a spring in her step, hoping that a new letter will be waiting for her. On the afternoons when there is a letter waiting, she sits in one of the rocking chairs on the front porch and loses herself for hours in reading and re-reading his latest letter. Only when the sun begins to dip below the horizon does she remember the chores and the schoolwork she had neglected.

Her Saturdays are devoted to writing to Ben. Whereas she had once enjoyed sleeping in on Saturday mornings, now she wakes up early, eager to start the day. After breakfast with her dad, she packs herself a lunch and gathers Ben's letters and her stationary. With everything thrown into her satchel, she jumps on her bicycle and hurriedly makes her way across town. She pedals down the path behind the Langston estate and opens the wooden gate to find Huckleberry alone in the garden and waiting for her. He waits for her by the magnolia tree, his tail wagging furiously as soon as he sees her. He runs alongside her bicycle, and the two of them make their way down to the lake together. They spend the whole day lounging on the dock. Huckleberry rests his head on her lap as she reads Ben's latest letter out loud. College life has exceeded even his greatest expectations, and as Margaret reads Ben's letters, she can almost hear his enthusiastic voice narrating his words, can almost picture him writing from all the places he describes. His first letter had been written on his first morning on campus. He had hardly been able to sleep the night before. He had been so excited about being at the university and couldn't wait to explore the campus before his first class. Early that morning, he had sat at his desk and watched the sun rise from his dormitory window. Campus had still been asleep and he could just make out the skyscrapers of the Chicago skyline in the distance. The sight before him had been so perfect and he had felt such a profound sense of calm that he wasn't sure whether he was awake or still asleep.

As she reads his letters, she wishes she could be there with him, experiencing all these extraordinary things with him. The way Ben describes the campus makes her think of the castles from the fairy tales she's always loved. She can't help but sigh as she reads about the ivy-covered gothic buildings and of afternoons spent idling away on the Midway Plaisance. His description of the library, with its vaulted ceiling and the perfect way the afternoon sun pours through its massive stained-glass windows, takes her breath away.

Everything about his life in Chicago sounds idyllic. During the school week, he passes his days in the company of his friends, reading and discussing so many incredible books, and exploring every nook and cranny of the university. His weekends are spent with his mother's family, who are a stark contrast from the Langstons. For all their wealth and influence, his McCormick relatives are a generous and welcoming family. His Saturdays are spent sailing on Lake Michigan or taking in a baseball game at Wrigley Field with his cousins or golfing with his grandfather. Saturday evenings, he joins his aunts, uncles, and cousins for dinner at his grandparents' house. It's a McCormick tradition and one that he loves. Over a multiple course dinner, there would be discussions and laughter that last late into the evening. He would spend the night at his grandparents' house, and after Sunday brunch, he would head back down to the university and prepare to start another wonderful week.

The semester flies by, and on a Saturday morning in early December, Ben sends his last letter from the University of Chicago. In his letter, he writes that he is looking forward to the end of his exams and to seeing Margaret during the holidays. The next day, he's having brunch with his grandparents when the news arrives that the Japanese have attacked Pearl Harbor.

* * *

Margaret can't remember anything specific from the days that followed. The tension is palpable throughout Arcadia. At school, even the usually troublesome students are more subdued. Margaret finds it difficult to concentrate on anything for very long. Everywhere she goes, there is a radio on. In the evenings, her dad returns from the factory and immediately switches on the radio in the kitchen, and the sound of the news broadcast permeates every room of the house. The constant talk of war grates on her ears and her nerves, but she finds that having the radio off only makes her feel even more ill at ease. Suddenly, it would feel as though all the air had been sucked out of the room and the sound of a ticking clock would be deafening. Walking through town, the sound of the clock tower bells tolling away the hours has taken on a funereal quality. The chill in the air has kept everyone indoors, and the streets are eerily empty and quiet. It seems as though all the color in the world has faded away. The sunlight is hazy and barely penetrates the heavy blanket of clouds that has settled over the town. The trees are bare and the leaves are shriveled and almost black in color. Her world seems smaller than ever as she goes straight to school and straight back home every day. She can't remember how many days pass in this manner, with one day simply flowing into the next one without distinction.

Then, on a random afternoon, the color suddenly comes back into her world. Her mind is distracted by all the talk of the war and her eyes are downcast as she walks home from school. She is a few yards away from her front porch when she suddenly gets the feeling that she isn't alone. She looks up and her large, blue eyes go wide with shock to find Ben sitting on the porch steps, holding Huckleberry in his lap, and waiting for her.

She is so stunned to see him that she stands frozen in place and unable to form any words. His smile slowly fades as he looks at her, his concern clearly visible in his brown eyes. He sets Huckleberry down and makes his way down the porch steps towards her, torn between approaching her slowly so as not to startle her and wanting to get to her as quickly as possible. Her heart pounds furiously as she watches him walking towards her. The few seconds it takes for him to walk over to her feel like they're happening in slow motion. It has only been four months since he'd left, and yet he looks so different to her. His clothes are impeccable, and the blue color of his shirt stands out so vividly against the grayness all around them. He seems even taller, his hair is neatly cut, and there is a faint trace of stubble on his jaw. He looks like he hasn't slept a good night's sleep in a while, but it does not detract from his appearance. If anything, it almost has the opposite effect. He looks so handsome walking towards her with a serious expression on his face that it leaves her breathless. _When had she begun to think of her best friend as a handsome boy?_ The question leaves her bewildered, and she's never felt more out of place than she does in that moment. She's standing there in a plain dress and a heavy wool coat, whereas Ben looks more handsome than any leading man she's ever seen.

"Hello, Meg," he says in a voice barely above a whisper. His voice has a somewhat breathless quality to it and his eyes are looking straight into hers with an intensity she's never seen before. The cold December wind cuts through the trees and sends her long hair flying in every direction. Ben is tired from the events of the past few days and from the drive down from Chicago. But as he stands there looking at Margaret, the only thing he's aware of is how she no longer wears her hair in pigtails. Instead, her long hair falls in soft waves over her slender shoulders. The sudden realization makes him feel out of breath and calm at the same time. He reaches out to sweep her hair out of her face and tuck the wavy locks behind her ears. She inhales sharply at how warm his hands are and how they linger as his thumb caresses her temple.

"You must be freezing," he says when he notices her shivering. He shrugs out of his coat and wraps it around her and the two of them walk into the house together.

Once inside, Margaret goes to the kitchen to make the two of them some tea. She puts the kettle on the stove and stands in the kitchen doorway, silently watching Ben as he gathers a couple logs from beside the fireplace and begins to build a fire. She goes about her business in the kitchen, but her eyes keep drifting back to him. The whistling of the kettle puts an abrupt end to her daydreaming, and she quickly grabs two mugs for her and Ben and makes her way to the living room. He's sitting cross-legged in front of the fire and leaning back against the coffee table. She doesn't say anything as she comes to sit next to him and offers him a cup of tea. They sip their tea in silence, and she tries to think of something interesting to say to him.

"Are you alright?" she asks gently. He looks so weary, but he turns to her and gives her a half smile.

"I'm fine. Just a little tired," he replies.

He must have left Chicago very early that morning and been driving all day, so she does her best not to press him on the subject. "I've really enjoyed your letters. We both have," she says looking down at Huckleberry. _We've both missed you._

He's staring at the fire with a blank expression as he slowly nods in agreement. Her heart sinks a little. Ben's too quiet and she can tell something's bothering him. She worries that she might have said or done something wrong. Or that he's regretting coming over and looking for a way to leave as soon as possible. She's about to ask him what's the matter when he scrubs his hands over his face and quickly stands up to leave. "I'm sorry. I'm just…a lot more tired than I realized. Could we…would you mind if we talk tomorrow? I should really get some sleep."

"Of course. Whatever you need, it's fine," she tells him, doing her best to keep any trace of apprehension out of her voice. She's still sitting on the floor as he scoops up Huckleberry and walks to the door. She's tempted to tell him that he can stay here, instead of driving all the way back across town. Her mind begins to drift, to the pleasant image of Ben lying on the couch with Huckleberry curled up next to him and her covering the two of them with her favorite quilt as they sleep. She hears Ben open the door, and it snaps her back to reality. She quickly gets up and walks over to him.

"Ben, what's going on? Are you sure you're alright?" she asks, placing her hand on his forearm.

"I'm fine. I'll tell you everything tomorrow, okay? I promise," he says, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. She feels him press a light kiss against the top of her head. "I'll see you tomorrow, Meg."

* * *

By the time she arrives at school the next morning, the news that Benjamin Langston is back in town has made its rounds, which doesn't surprise her as Ben had always been a popular boy. To the teachers, he was an excellent student. To the boys, he was the star of the varsity basketball team. And the girls had definitely taken notice of the boy who had always been tall and handsome and who is now a college boy dressed in fine clothes. In the hallway, Margaret spots Mary Edgerton giggling with a group of girls. Normally, the less-than-friendly look Mary throws her way would have bothered her, but this morning Margaret finds it comical. To think that Mary Edgerton, the prettiest girl in school, should be jealous of her! It takes some effort not to give in to the smirk she feels pulling at the corners of her mouth, but she manages to re-direct her eyes straight ahead and appear unaffected as she walks past them.

Everyone might assume it's her dad's coat she's wearing today, but Margaret knows that it's actually Ben's. He had left it at her house yesterday afternoon, and she had been worried that he'd catch a cold without it. She had hung his coat on a chair in her room and had stared out her window all evening, hoping Ben might stop by. It was nearly midnight when she finally accepted that he wouldn't be stopping by and that she would be unable to fall asleep if she kept staring at his coat hanging across the room. So she had curled up under the covers with his coat and imagined that he was there with her. Within a few minutes, she had fallen fast asleep, breathing in the lingering scent of Old Spice and her fingers curled around one of the lapels. The whole thing makes her feel incredibly silly and yet she cannot stop smiling. She pulls his coat tighter around her and knows she will spend the entire school day staring out the window and daydreaming about seeing Ben in the afternoon.

It's only when the school day finally comes to an end that Margaret realizes that she and Ben never discussed where they would meet. As she walks back to her house, her mind starts racing through all the possible explanations for Ben's return. She knew he would be coming back to Arcadia for the holidays, but he is back in town sooner than expected and had arrived on a weekday. She can tell that something is amiss. Had something happened at the university? Had something happened to his family? Arcadia is a small town and the Langstons are its most prominent family, but she has not heard anything of significance about them. Certainly not anything significant enough to bring Ben back to town so suddenly. What she does hear about the Langstons does not go beyond the usual gossip concerning Warren Langston's unchanged bachelor status. Like everyone else, she had been convinced an engagement between Warren and Susan Edgerton would be announced at that party three years ago. Margaret had snuck into the garden at the back of the Langston estate and watched the party by the magnolia tree with Ben. When it turned out Edward Langston's big announcement was that Warren had been promoted to Vice President of the Langston Furniture Company, Ben had jokingly thrown down his glass of punch in dramatic fashion and declared the Mrs. Warren Langston Sweepstakes a lost cause. Luckily, she and Ben had been far away from all the other guests so that no one heard their rather unsuccessful attempts at containing their laughter.

Three years later, even the stubborn Mr. Harold Edgerton had relented in his attempts to broker a match between his family and the Langstons. Susan Edgerton had moved on with one of her father's business associates, a young man from Nashville whose charming smile sent all the young ladies into a frenzy every time he visited Arcadia. Susan's father, proud man that he is, had spared no expense in placing a prominent announcement in the local newspaper and throwing a lavish party at the Arcadia Country Club to announce his daughter's engagement. During the final days of the summer recess, Margaret had often stopped by the factory to have lunch with her dad. Sometimes, she would catch a glimpse of Warren Langston, who appears unaffected by the news of Susan's engagement. He carries on as he had before, silently shadowing Edward Langston everywhere with the same blank expression on his face. Ben's letters from his mother, however, tell a different story, as Warren's drinking preferences have transitioned from beer to whiskey.

The farmhouse comes into view, and she can see Ben, still looking as weary and tense as he had yesterday afternoon, sitting on the porch steps. The fact that his car is nowhere in sight only causes her to worry even more. It's a bitterly cold day, and he had walked across town without his coat. The Andersons' front door is never locked, so he could have waited inside. She quickens her pace, wanting to get him out of the cold as soon as possible. He silently follows her inside the house, with the two of them going through the same motions as they had the day before: him building a fire in the living room and her preparing tea in the kitchen and unable to keep her eyes from drifting over to him.

As they sit in front of the fire with their mugs of tea, it's the first time Margaret's ever found herself feeling nervous around Ben. Suddenly, she feels deeply self-conscious about everything and wonders why a boy as perfect as Ben would be spending his afternoon here. She wishes she was someone else. Someone effortlessly cool and confident, someone full of witty sayings. Like one of those high society girls whose company he must have enjoyed at his grandparents' house. While it bothers her that she's tongue-tied, she tells herself that it has at least kept her from blurting out something that would remind Ben that she's a fourteen-year-old country girl. Especially when she wants nothing more than for him to look at her the same way he must look at the well-read, sophisticated young ladies at the university.

She tightens her hold on her mug to keep her hands from fidgeting. Ben clears his throat and states, "I won't be going back to Chicago in the spring." He's staring straight ahead into the fire. Between the blank expression on his face and the eerily flat tone of his voice, he almost resembles Warren.

She thinks of all the letters he had written over the past semester, letters overflowing with words about the happiness he had experienced in Chicago. It all seems completely at odds with what he's telling her now. She can't make sense of any of it. "I don't understand. Why?" she asks him in a thin voice.

"Because I've enlisted in the Army," he answers her, more abruptly than he had intended. He thinks back to ten days ago, to how a perfect Sunday brunch had been interrupted by reports on the radio of an attack on a naval base in Hawaii. He hadn't returned to campus that evening. Instead, he had sat in front of the fire in his grandfather's study with the radio drowning out any other sounds, and he had known his idyllic days in Chicago were over. The next day, the country had declared war and Ben had found himself standing in line with dozens of other young men in a recruiting office. He had passed the next week in a state of near madness. He had barely slept or eaten and was running almost entirely on adrenaline. And yet somehow he had had the lucidity to successfully complete all his final projects, pass his examinations, and file all the necessary paperwork to formally withdraw from the university. Yesterday morning, he had walked through the snowy campus at sunrise, trying to commit everything to memory. He knew it would be the last time, but his nerves had been too frayed to process anything. He cannot remember anything from yesterday morning's drive. It's as if one minute he was staring at the gargoyles on Cobb Gate and the next he was suddenly knocking on the front door of the Langston estate. The timing of his arrival had been deliberate, as the only person at home would be his mother and she deserved to be the first to know. True to form, Caroline Langston had remained composed and had told Ben that she was so proud of him. But after the two of them had had lunch together, she had removed herself to her bedroom and broken down in sobs. Ben had sat silently at the top of the stairs with Huckleberry until he just couldn't stand to be in the house for another second. He had felt delirious with fatigue as he drove over to the Andersons' farm. As he sits on the floor now, he is struck by the feeling of déjà vu. He turns his head to look at Meg, and the sight of her blue eyes glistening in the firelight is what finally clears the fog that has clouded his own eyes for the past ten days. She looks so small and frightened.

"Meg, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to yell at you. I just...I'm sorry. I'm just tired and worried and ever since I arrived I've brought nothing but tears. First mother and now you," he apologizes, the words spoken rapidly. Her long hair is covering her face, and he thinks perhaps it makes delivering the bad news easier. Though it doesn't make the pain any less acute or stop him from momentarily hating himself when he hears her sniffle quietly.

She shakes her head. "It's not that. It's…" her voice trails off. She takes a deep breath, willing the fear to subside. She's heard the reports on the radio. The United States has declared war. Thousands had died at Pearl Harbor. Europe is being bombed into oblivion. She knows all those things, but her whole life is in Arcadia, and all those awful things had happened somewhere else, somewhere far away. She knows how selfish that must make her sound, but the war hadn't interrupted the world as she knows it. _Until now._ "Why? Why would you put your life in danger like that?" she asks angrily. "I don't want you to go! I want you back at the university where it's safe!"

Ben gives her a sad smile and simply nods. Anything he could say to her in this moment would come across as half-hearted platitudes. And he knows it isn't him that she's really angry with. His fingers itch to sweep her hair away from her face and to wipe her tears away with a gentle sweep of his thumbs. Instead, he decides it might be best to give her some time and space to process everything. He places his mug on the coffee table and gathers his coat from the sofa. He walks to the door, and she sits silently, dreading the sound of the door closing behind him.

He puts his hand on the doorknob, but he doesn't leave. He looks over the where she sits and watches the way the glow of the fire brings out all the shades of chestnut and auburn in her hair. "I'm not going to change my mind about enlisting. I only hope that you won't stay angry with me. Because I'll write to you every chance I get, and I hope… I'd like it if you'd write me back sometime," he says. "I'll be catching the train to Fort Leonard Wood in a few days, and I'd really like to see you before I leave." He opens the door to leave, and the cold air hits him like a punch to the gut. He looks at his feet as he adds, "But if I don't see you again, I hope you and your dad have a good Christmas. I'll write to you as soon as I can. I promise, Meg."

She can hear the sadness in his voice, and she turns to ask him to stay. But he's already gone.

When her dad returns home that evening, he finds her sitting in front of the fireplace, hugging her knees. He calls her name gently, but she doesn't respond. She listens as he hangs his coat by the door and removes his work boots. He sits down on the floor next to her and puts his arm around her.

"I suspect this is about Benjamin's decision to enlist," he says. She looks at him, her eyes teary and confused. "He came by the factory about an hour ago. We talked for a little while and then I drove him home. The dear boy looks like he hasn't had a good night's sleep in weeks. He asked me to ask you something," he says and she looks at him expectantly. "You make sure you see that boy before he leaves and let him know that you'll continue to look after Huckleberry for him, you hear?" he tells her with a firm, yet gentle hand on her shoulder.

She can no longer hold back the tears and her dad pulls her into a warm hug.

"Everything's going to be okay, my dear," he whispers, as he caresses her hair. "He'll be okay. He's the luckiest boy we know, remember?" her dad reassures her, and she finds herself laughing through the tears.

She remembers the night Ben played in his first basketball game for Arcadia High. He had already been one of the most popular boys at school, and his popularity only sky-rocketed when he made the game-winning shot as time expired. Everyone had rushed onto the court and Margaret and her dad had ended up standing right next to Caroline Langston. Ben had pushed his way through the crowd and thrown his arms around all three of them. Her dad had offered to take the four of them to the ice cream parlor to celebrate and, to Margaret's surprise, Mrs. Langston had enthusiastically accepted. It was one of the few times Margaret had ever interacted with Mrs. Langston and the first time she saw the warmth that Ben had always described. She was still as refined and gracious as she'd always been, but she beamed with pride as she listened to Ben give them an entertaining play-by-play and would occasionally sweep his messy hair out of his eyes. With the way the conversation and the laughter had flowed so easily, Margaret couldn't help thinking that the four of them looked like the perfect family that night. Her dad had ordered the biggest sundae on the menu for Ben and they'd all broken into "For He's a Jolly Good Fellow" when it arrived at their table. Her dad had handed Ben a spoon, saying "To Benjamin Langston, the luckiest boy we know!"

She looks up at her dad with a smile and he smiles back. "There's my perfect little pearl," he says, before wiping her cheeks with his sleeve and pressing a kiss to her forehead.

* * *

The wind has picked up, and Ben pulls his coat tighter as he sits on the uncomfortable wooden bench. The platform is empty. There are hardly any travelers today, and those who are traveling are sensible enough to wait in the comfort of the waiting room. But Ben prefers the empty platform and would rather stare up and down the empty tracks. He's waiting on a train that will take him to the Ozarks. And he's waiting on a girl.

He reaches into his pocket and opens his gold pocket watch. There's still another half hour until the train arrives. He's nervous she won't be coming but he also tells himself there's still time. _There's still time for him to see her again. There's still time for him to change his mind about leaving_. He closes the watch and carefully places it back in his coat pocket. His eyes follow the line of the tracks until they disappear into the trees. His eyes drift away from all the black and gray in the distance. And suddenly she is there, dressed in a long navy blue coat with her hair dancing in the wind. The sight of her walking towards him makes him impervious to the cold. She sits down beside him and studies his face for a moment, wanting to commit every detail to memory. She knows that to do so would require very little effort on her part, and the thought makes her smile.

"I'm so glad you're here," he says, relieved.

"Likewise," she says with a smile and watches as a knowing smile lights up his face. She chews her lip for a moment. "I wanted to let you know that I'll look after Huckleberry for you. And I wanted to tell you that I'm sorry about the way I acted last time. I know how important this is to you and I should have been supportive and I wasn't and I'm sorry. It's just…I'm scared, Ben."

The words pour out of her, and the wavering of her voice pierces him deeply. He wishes he knew what to say to offer her some comfort in that moment, but all he can do is give her a sad smile. He puts his arm around her shoulder and she slides into his embrace. She rests her head on his shoulder and watches as Ben takes her hand in hers. His right hand lazily explores hers, as his other hand plays with her hair. She can feel his lips and his steady breaths against her forehead and the warmth they bring overwhelms her. With each rise and fall of his chest, it's as if she can feel him breathing her in. The scent of Old Spice on his neck is intoxicating, and she lets her imagination run wild with ideas she is not bold enough to act upon. The thought of brushing her lips against his neck, pressing small kisses along his jawline, and finally meeting his lips in a long, lingering kiss leaves her feeling dizzy and flushed.

"I um…I wanted to give you something," he says softly, breaking her reverie. She sits up and fidgets with her hair as Ben reaches into the bag at his feet and pulls out two books. "It's not much, but these are for you. Merry Christmas, Meg."

She takes the books from him and looks at them with a wistful sigh. One is a book about how to make pressed flowers and the other is an atlas. "They're wonderful, Ben. Thank you. I'm so sorry, I should have gotten you something," she says, feeling the tears prick her eyes.

"You being here is enough," he tells her, as he reaches out to gently tuck her hair behind her ear. "More than enough," he adds softly. His fingers linger in her hair and he slowly pulls a small lock of it towards him. "Could I…would you give me a lock of your hair?"

Her heart flutters. _Like something out of a fairy tale._ She nods, and keeps her eyes fixed on Ben's face as he takes his pocket knife from his coat pocket and cuts a small lock of her hair just below her shoulder. She braids it for him and he licks the back of a stamp and uses the adhesive to seal the ends, before placing the stamp on an envelope.

"I promised that I'd write to you. Can't let the postage go to waste, can I?" he teases, and it causes her to laugh for the first and only time today. She smiles as she watches him write her name and address on the envelope. He puts the envelope inside a book, and her eyes widen when she sees that it's the Arcadia Public Library's copy of Yeats' _Irish Fairy and Folk Tales_. He gives her a mischievous smile and shrugs. "Well, what's one more secret between best friends, right?"

He takes the gold pocket watch from his coat. "An early Christmas present from my mother," he explains, sounding slightly pensive. He opens the back cover and she sees that his name has been engraved inside. He carefully places her lock of hair inside, closes the watch, and slides it back into his pocket.

The train whistle sounds in the distance and Margaret tries to swallow the lump in her throat. Ben gathers his bag and takes a few steps forward, looking down the tracks for the first appearance of the train. She sits on the bench and takes a deep breath, summoning the courage to say goodbye to him again. She comes to stand beside him and slips her hand into his. At the touch of her hand, he turns his head to look at her. Neither of them says anything, the weight of the moment hanging over them. She takes a breath and steps closer, raising herself on her tiptoes to put her arms around his shoulders. He drops his bag on the ground and wraps both his arms around her, lifting her off the ground slightly.

"You're my best friend. I don't want anything bad to ever happen to you," she says, tearfully. He lets out a heavy breath, and she knows that he remembers how he had said those same words to her once. He hugs her tighter. One of his hands slides up her back and his fingers curl into her hair at the nape of her neck. A shiver runs through her, and she feels as if she's melting into him.

"Everything's going to be okay, Meg. I'll be careful, I promise," he whispers. They separate slightly and he runs his fingers through her hair, marveling at how perfect her hair is. He cups her face in his hands and looks deep into those beautiful blue eyes. "There's still so much to live for," he tells her and gently dabs her cheek with his sleeve. He leans his forehead against hers and closes his eyes.

She keeps her forehead pressed against his as she watches the train pull into the station. Her fingers tighten their hold on the lapels of his coat, wishing she could keep him here, and knowing that she can't. The train comes to a stop, and Margaret releases her hold on Ben's coat. He slings his bag over his shoulder and holds out his other hand to her. Slowly, they walk hand-in-hand toward the train. He boards the train and stands in the open door. As the final whistle sounds, he quickly reaches out to cup her chin and presses a kiss to her cheek. She closes her eyes and breathes him in one last time. "I'll see you soon, Meg," he whispers in her ear as the train begins moving. He smiles brightly and keeps his eyes on her the entire time. She waves goodbye and watches the train make its way down the tracks until it disappears into the woods.

* * *

The next three years pass quickly and are unexpectedly three of the best years of Margaret's life. The first few weeks following Ben's departure had been difficult, as the reports from Europe and the Pacific now carried greater significance. The rigorous schedule of basic training had yielded little opportunity for Ben to write any letters. The lack of communication from Ben, coupled with the constant blaring of the radio broadcasts, wreaked havoc on her nerves. Thankfully, her dad had been there to remind her that a few weeks of unease was a small price to pay if it meant Ben would be as well-trained as possible. He also reassured her that while Ben was in training, he was nearby and he was safe. And sure enough, the arrival of spring had brought the wildflowers back to the fields and had also signaled the return of Ben's long-awaited letters. He had excelled throughout basic training and had been selected to attend Officer Candidate School at Fort Benning. She knows that he is anxious to serve and that it is only a matter of time before he is sent overseas, but she prays the war might come to an end before then. Especially when Ben writes to her in the summer and tells her that he had decided to join an experimental paratrooper regiment at Camp Toccoa. The idea of him jumping out of a plane only to land in hostile enemy territory terrifies Margaret. And while she does not want Ben to fail to complete the course, she is relieved to know that Ben will remain stateside for the next year. She practically memorizes the book he had given her on how to press flowers and wonders if he ever misses his hometown. Her summer days are spent taking long walks down to the lake, with Huckleberry always at her side, and collecting wildflowers. She daydreams about him as she spends afternoons on the lake. She sends him pressed flowers from Arcadia and is delighted when Ben's letters include pressed daisies from Georgia and North Carolina and Kentucky and Tennessee.

Inevitably, Ben's regiment is deployed to Europe a couple months after Margaret's sixteenth birthday. The first letter Ben writes from the other side of the Atlantic Ocean arrives on a beautiful autumn afternoon. In it, he apologizes for the deliberately belated birthday wishes, but he had wanted to include a couple special items which hadn't been ready in time for her birthday. She feels lit from within when she finds the photograph of Ben, newly promoted to first lieutenant and looking more dashing than ever in his uniform, standing in front of the _Samaria_ in New York that past September and a perfectly pressed white daisy from a field in Wiltshire.

Arcadia thrives during the war years and so does Margaret. The machines of the Langston Furniture Company are re-purposed to assist the war effort, and there is no shortage of well-paying jobs or paperwork to be filed. Her dad gets her a job at the factory, and she begins working in the front office a few afternoons a week after school. The job allows her organizational and mathematical skills to shine, and her shyness fades away as she interacts with more and more people and learns a little bit about all the factory's various departments. Her newfound confidence feeds into her performance both at school and at work. While she had always been a good student, it is only now that she begins to give serious consideration to attending college. She remembers the glowing letters Ben had written her from his days at the University of Chicago, and she wants to experience that same joy for herself. After some encouraging words from her teachers, Margaret seriously considers applying to the University of Missouri.

The summer of 1944 marks the beginning of what will be one of the most momentous years of Margaret Anderson's life. In June, Ben makes his first combat jump and safely lands in Normandy. The next month is a nerve-wracking one, as the radio and newspaper reports of D-Day continue to pour in. It is a few weeks after her seventeenth birthday when Margaret receives a letter from Ben, and she breathes a sigh of relief when she sees that it was written at the end of June. He had written to her immediately after returning to England, wanting to let her know that he was safely back in Wiltshire with only a few minor injuries and to wish her a happy birthday. His thoughtfulness overwhelms her and tears of happiness run down her cheeks when she finds that he has sent her a white daisy from Sainte-Marie-du-Mont.

As she begins her senior year of high school, Ben's Company is engaged in what feels like a never-ending series of battles throughout the Netherlands. The operation is ultimately unsuccessful, and his discouragement following a week of intense battles and heavy losses is palpable. Any hope of the war ending by Christmas is gone and the largest and bloodiest battle of the war is still to come.

Amid all this bad news, Margaret feels almost guilty for how well things are going in her life. Everything is going well at school and at the factory, and she and her dad are the happiest they've been since the fire. Each night, she opens the atlas Ben had given her and circles his latest location. She is still a girl who has never been anywhere but Arcadia, but she travels to the beaches of France and the fields of Holland through Ben's letters and the flowers he sends her. At school, she overhears the other girls gossiping about how Margaret has a handsome G.I. writing to her. Some of the girls even refer to Benjamin Langston as "Margaret's beau", the sound of which brings a dreamy smile to her face.

On the other side of the Atlantic, some of the men in Ben's platoon have noticed that the only person Ben ever writes to, other than his mother, is a girl named Meg. After learning about Huckleberry and about Ben's wealthy McCormick relations, they begin referring to Ben as Nick Charles and to the mysterious Meg as "Ben's girl" and "Mrs. Nora Charles". The letter in which he had relayed this particular information had been written just after Christmas, when the Siege of Bastogne had ended. After a miserable week in the damp and the cold, his body ached and he wondered if he'd ever feel warm again. But with the siege broken, there was a quiet beauty to the hazy sunlight and snow-covered trees of the Ardennes that morning. It's the first quiet morning he had experienced in months, and he could almost convince himself that it was Christmas morning and that he was back home in Arcadia. In that moment, he wants nothing more than to write to his mother and to Meg. He digs through a few inches of snow at his feet and picks a flower for Meg. The teasing he had endured from his fellow soldiers that winter now brings a smile to his face, and he addresses his letter to "My dearest Nora" and signs it "Love, Your Nick."

That letter thrills Margaret like nothing she has ever experienced before. She reads his letter in front of the fireplace, with her favorite quilt wrapped around her. The joy that had been absent from his letters had returned, and that fact brings more warmth than the fire does. He tells her that he will likely be promoted to captain in the spring and somehow, he just believes that the war will be over soon and that he will live to see peacetime. He writes that he hopes to come home soon, so that he can tell her about his experiences in Europe and so much more. She had acknowledged her growing feelings for Ben long ago, but when she received that letter, she had dared to hope that Ben's feelings towards her were more than platonic. She begins to imagine the life she wants after the war ends – a life in a small house beside the ocean, where she and her best friend chase Huckleberry and their beautiful children around a small garden. On the weekends, they would take afternoon naps in the hammock in the backyard. They would watch the golden California sunsets after dinner and fall asleep, wrapped in each other's arms, to the sound of the Pacific Ocean's waves.

It's a future she had believed was possible when she walked into her dad's office in February to find Edward Langston shaking her dad's hand before turning to her and greeting her as his future daughter-in-law.

* * *

It has been two months since that afternoon. Now, it's a sunny morning in April. It's the sort of morning that she should be enjoying outdoors. She should be picking wildflowers for pressing or chasing Huckleberry through the fields instead of hiding in a corner of the barn and filled with despair. She holds one of her dad's handkerchiefs in her hands, occasionally burying her face in the cotton to muffle the sound of her sobs and to prevent the tears from falling on her pristine white gown. The desperation she has felt these past two months slowly gives way to hopelessness, as the inevitability of today settles upon her like a heavy wool cloak.

She looks around the barn and her eyes focus on the beautiful brown horse standing a few feet away from her, the sound of its breaths deep and steady. She smiles a small, sad smile as she looks at Lancelot. The barn used to be one of her favorite places. It was where she would spend her afternoons reading every book she could get her hands on and letting them transport her to seaside castles and enchanted forests far, far away from Arcadia. There are times when, if it's quiet enough in the barn, she can almost hear the sound of a woman humming a lullaby, and she knows it must be a memory, one of the few she has, of her mother. The barn had been a place of simple and happy memories. She remembers watching her dad working, all the while whistling a happy tune. Until that awful morning, when she witnessed the disappearance of those two men, her most vivid memory of the barn was from when she was seven years old. Her dad had allowed her to stay up all night, and she had sat on his lap as he read Yeats' _Irish Fairy and Folk Tales_ to her. Then, just before the dawn broke, the two of them had watched as a perfect brown foal had entered the world and taken his first steps on his wobbly legs. Margaret had named him Lancelot, and her dad had smiled and told her the name was perfect. She looks at Lancelot now, and she wants nothing more than to throw his saddle on him and ride as far away from the barn, as far away from Arcadia as possible. In the ten years since Lancelot's birth, the barn has become a place she associates with death. Seven years ago, she had watched those two men disappear, never to return again. And today, on what should be the happiest day of her life, Margaret knows something else will disappear from this earth forever as well.

If she closes her eyes, she can almost hear the returned man's voice saying that everything will be okay and to just let go. But those rules don't apply to the living. In a matter of hours, Margaret Anderson will disappear, but Margaret Langston will have to find a way to carry on. She doesn't know whether to weep bitterly or laugh hysterically. How many times over the past three years had she entertained the idea of one day being able to call herself Margaret Langston, only to discover that whoever answered wishes made on stars by foolish teenage girls had a cruel sense of humor? After all, there had been two eligible bachelors in the Langston household. And today, she would become Mrs. Warren Langston, not Mrs. Benjamin Langston.

She shudders to think that the past two months were merely a grim portent of the miserable life that awaits her. The past two months have been marked by desperation and hopelessness, as she had been forced to accept just how little control she has over her own life. Edward Langston's decisions had cost twelve men their lives and turned her dad into a broken man. When he announced that the wedding would take place in April, Margaret had panicked. She had looked at her dad and asked that the wedding be postponed until the summer so that she could finish high school. Edward Langston had scoffed and told her that the education of girls was a waste of both time and money and that the wedding would be going ahead as planned. That afternoon, she had walked down to the river and wept bitterly. She was one of the brightest students in her class and she would not be allowed to earn her high school diploma, her dream of ever attending college essentially destroyed.

For two months, she had tried to find a way to break the engagement. So many times, she had wanted to pack a suitcase and run away from Arcadia. But she has nowhere to go. She has no money, no formal education, and no relatives who could take her in. If she had been older, if she'd been the same age as Ben, she could have already been away at college. Or she could have trained as a nurse with the Army and had the means to make her own life. But she is only seventeen years old and deeply fearful of what might happen if she did run away. Edward Langston is not just a powerful man, he is a cruel one. And she has no doubt that he would have her hunted down like he had those factory workers hunted down or that he would harm her dad to keep the truth behind the factory fire from ever getting out.

And while she feels like a lamb being led to slaughter, she understands why her dad has agreed to the arrangement. His daughter's life has been defined by an economic depression and a world war. In exchange for his loyalty, Edward Langston had told her dad that his daughter would have a better life. Money can provide an illusory sense of security, and the Langstons are undoubtedly wealthy. But Margaret would have gladly exchanged financial security for the freedom to live out the rest of her days on the Andersons' farm. She can't hold back a sob as she realizes that she'll never sleep in her bed again. She'll never come down the stairs and eat breakfast with her dad at the kitchen table again. She'll never sit in the rocking chair on the front porch and read Ben's letters again.

_Ben._ She whispers his name sadly and disappears into the same memory each time: Ben standing barefoot in a garden with a smile on his handsome face and the scent of gardenias thick and sweet on a summer afternoon. She buries her face in her hands as she remembers the day the engagement announcement appeared in the newspaper. The truth behind the factory fire had been effectively covered up, and the idea of Warren Langston marrying a girl with no fortune or connections made no sense to anyone in town. Everywhere she went, she could hear people whispering about her. And when she overheard the rumor that was running rampant through town, it was as if the ground had suddenly fallen out beneath her. She had run home as fast as she could, running so hard that it had felt like her lungs were burning up inside her chest. The idea that she, a virgin who has never even kissed a boy, had seduced a man old enough to be her father and had fallen pregnant with his child horrified her. But for a brief moment, she had wondered whether she should embrace the reputation she had wrongly acquired. Perhaps the way to break the engagement was to wound Edward Langston's pride, to make him reconsider marrying his son and heir to a girl of loose morals. But simply perpetuating the gossip was unlikely to bring about the desired effect. And it might all be for naught. The chances that Edward Langston would change his mind are slim, and the shame it would bring, not only to her but to her dad as well, is too much to bear. Ultimately, she would never be able to actually follow through on the idea. Ben has made no promises to her, and yet she wants every new experience to be shared with him. To experience certain things with anyone else would feel like a huge betrayal.

She had written a frantic letter to Ben immediately, and the lack of any response from him hurts her more than anything else from the past two months has. She tells herself not to be so selfish. There is a war raging across Europe. He could be deeply entrenched behind enemy lines. Or he could be gravely injured and fighting for his life. Or he simply hasn't received her letter yet. _Or he could have met someone._ It's the first time the thought occurs to her, and it sends a fresh and powerful new wave of pain through her. He is a handsome, young officer from a well-connected family, and she is just a factory worker's daughter from a small town. He had parachuted into Normandy and held the line at Bastogne. _He deserves the best_, she tells herself, _and I'm just not it_. She feels so foolish for thinking such a boy could ever be hers. She remembers something he had told her years ago: Ben had always had his freedom. He could still have that perfect life beside the ocean. But it would never be with her. Someone else would get to share that perfect life with that perfect boy. She feels as if her heart is crumbling to ashes. She's never cried this hard before, and she doubts she ever will again.

Suddenly, her dad's voice calling her name cuts through the sound of her sobs. _No! Please no! Not yet!_ she screams inside. The barn door swings open and her dad walks in, looking so relieved. He had been worried that she had run away without saying goodbye and that he'd never see her again. Or worse, that she might have done something desperate. All morning, he'd been haunted by the thought of discovering his little girl's lifeless body floating in the river. His relief is palpable but short-lived.

"Dad! Please don't make me do this!" she begs him tearfully, and it breaks his heart. He wants to run over to her and take her in his arms, but Edward Langston storms in behind him. Margaret's blood runs cold at the sight of him. He sneers at her before turning to her dad.

"For Christ's sake, Anderson! Tell your girl to stop her sniveling and get in the car. We're running late enough as it is!" he barks at her dad in his usual condescending tone as he storms out of the barn.

Her dad kneels down and she throws her arms around his neck as he helps her to her feet. He takes the handkerchief from her and gently dabs her eyes and cheeks. "No more tears, Meg. This is for the best," he says and leads her to the waiting car.

* * *

There is very little she remembers of the wedding ceremony or the reception at the Langston house that follows. She had stared out the window in silence on the way to the church, feeling the beginnings of a rift forming between her and her dad. When her dad had not acquiesced to her final plea to call off the wedding, she hadn't broken down in tears. Instead, she had felt a chill settle deep in her bones, as if something inside her had been extinguished. Rather than break, her heart had hardened. As she stood at the back of the church, she could see Warren standing at the altar, his eyes fixed in the same vacant way that they always were. With his hair neatly combed and his suit perfectly pressed, he is not an unattractive sight. Had he been the only Langston son, she might have been able to convince herself that she was, as she had overheard every woman in town whispering over the past couple months, the luckiest girl in Arcadia. But Warren is not Edward Langston's only son. And though his eyes may be the same color as Ben's, there is no sparkle or tenderness in them when he looks at her. Just as there is no sparkle or tenderness in her eyes when she looks at him. _We'll likely never look at each other any differently than we do now_, she thinks to herself, _with neither joy, nor love, nor light_. This is not how she had imagined her wedding day, and she realizes that the only way she'll make it through this dreadful day is by forcing her mind to go completely blank. When the pastor declares them man and wife and tells Warren he may kiss his bride, she summons every last drop of willpower to keep herself from collapsing in a heap. She clasps her hands together tightly and fixes her stare on a spot on the wall behind Warren, keeping her eyes open the entire time. Closing her eyes will only lead to daydreams of sharing this moment with Ben and inevitably to crippling disappointment when she opens her eyes to find it is not a handsome young man in his captain's uniform smiling back at her with a twinkle in his brown eyes as he whispers, "Hello, Mrs. Langston." It is her first kiss, and it is quickly over and done with. She takes Warren's arm and gives her first performance as Margaret Langston, a woman of perfect posture and perfectly polite smiles that do not reach her eyes, as they exit the church.

As she stands in the parlor beside Warren and greets their guests that afternoon, she realizes that this is the first time she has ever been inside the Langston house. Suddenly, it feels like there is so much of his Ben's life that she knows nothing about. She is temporarily distracted from her efforts to keep her mind completely blank, and all sorts of doubts come rushing in. How well did she really know Ben? She loves everything about him, but does she love him? Or was it only gratitude? Was she special to him, or was he simply kind and charming to everyone? Just as she feels like she might burst into tears again, she catches the flash of something white from the corner of her eye. On the second floor landing, Huckleberry sticks his head between the balusters and wags his tail as soon as he sees her. Her panic dissipates, and for the first time that day, her smile makes it all the way to her eyes.

It turns out there are some things in this world that even Edward Langston cannot destroy. That a man so monstrous could give the world a son as wonderful as Ben is nothing short of a miracle. And while there are pieces of Ben's life she will never know, there are pieces of him that belong only to her. He is Captain Benjamin Langston to everyone else, but she is the only one who gets to calls him Ben, the only one who gets to call him their best friend. Margaret Anderson had become Margaret Langston, but there are still pieces of that happy, lovely girl out there in the world. Those pieces exist because of the boy who calls her Meg, the boy who always remembered to look for the simple beauty of a white daisy in even the most desolate of war zones, the boy who had pulled her into his arms after she had told him the biggest secret of her life. And somewhere across the Atlantic Ocean, in the picturesque Bavarian Alps, a lock of that happy, lovely girl's hair sits safely enclosed within a gold pocket watch, carried next to the steadily beating heart of that wonderful boy.


	3. Chapter 3: Remembrance of Things Past

"They say the past is etched in stone, but it isn't. It's smoke trapped in a closed room, swirling, changing. Buffeted by the passing of years and wishful thinking. But even though our perception of it changes, one thing remains constant. The past can never be completely erased. It lingers. Like the scent of burning wood." – In the Blood, _Daredevil (2015)_

Chapter III: Remembrance of Things Past

She's standing on a train platform. It's early in the morning and the station is still quiet. The shops are beginning to open, and the wonderful aromas from the bakery and the florist begin to fill the air. She smiles as she breathes in the smell of freshly-baked baguettes and freshly-cut gardenias. Everything seems to be made more beautiful by the soft, hazy light. It's almost as if the glowing feeling of peacetime has been made tangible. She watches as the first train pulls into the station and the platform fills with more and more people. The train comes to a stop and the steam from the locomotive floods the entire platform. Margaret stands perfectly still in her long, red dress and watches the people rush by all around her until a handsome, young man emerges from the cloud of steam. His eyes find hers through the crowd, and she feels her heartbeat quicken as she watches him walk towards her. He is tall and perfect in his captain's uniform, and when he smiles he is even more handsome. Neither of them says anything. They simply come together, her arms around his neck and his hands on her waist as he picks her up and spins her around a few times. When he sets her down, she feels as if she's still floating on air. He runs his fingers through her hair before gently caressing her face, tracing his fingers lightly over her skin as if he's committing every detail to memory. She watches his face the entire time, watches the way his eyes look at her like he has never seen anything so beautiful.

"Meg," he whispers breathlessly as he leans in and kisses her. His arms wrap around her tightly and her fingers curl into his hair as she breathes him in. The long years of waiting and pining for him melt away as his lips press against hers and their tongues entwine. She feels herself falling backwards, and his hand moves to pillow her head as he lays her back on the soft sands of a beach somewhere in California. As their kisses become more intense, it is not only the rays of the sun that are responsible for the warmth she feels all over her. She can feel the warm skin and hard planes of his body against every inch of her naked skin. His brown eyes are filled with desire as he looks deeply into her eyes, wordlessly seeking, almost begging her for permission to continue. It overwhelms her just how much she wants him, and when she caresses his cheek and nods, he lets her know how much he wants her too. Their fingers lace together and she never wants to let him go. Her pleasure continues to build as his lips explore her, and just when she thinks she cannot possibly feel anything more pleasurable, Ben presses a warm kiss to her cheek like he has so many times before. He brings his mouth to her ear, and she feels his breath as he whispers the words she longs to hear more than any others. The sound of his voice telling her "I love you, Meg" echoes all around her.

And then she wakes up.

* * *

The house is quiet, so quiet that she can even hear the grandfather clock downstairs as it ticks away the seconds over the sound of her deep, ragged breaths. She lies still, looking at the pale moonlight filtering through the bedroom window, as she debates whether to try to fall back asleep. It's been years since she has dreamt that particular dream. In the early years of her marriage, Ben had occupied her every waking thought and thoughts of him had followed her into her sleep. On those nights, she would dream of passionate kisses and hearing Ben tell her he loved her as they made love on the beach. She would wake up breathless, filled with embarrassment to find that her hands had drifted beneath the sheets but also savoring every last second that every inch of her body hummed with pleasure. In a panic, she would look over to Warren's side of the bed and breathe a sigh of relief that he had once again fallen asleep in his armchair in the living room downstairs. Or if he was in bed, he was still sound asleep, snoring away in a whiskey-soaked stupor. She would lay there, staring at the ceiling, knowing it would only be a matter of minutes before she would come down from the physical release the dream had temporarily provided. Inevitably, she would find herself blinking back tears as she was forced to accept that the dream, no matter how real it had felt, was nothing more than a dream. She was married to someone else and Ben hadn't returned from the war.

She shakes her head. There's no use in trying to fall back asleep. Perhaps some fresh air and a cup of tea would do her good, she thinks, as she changes out of her nightgown. She makes her way down the stairs and into the kitchen, fills the kettle, and sets it on the stove. As she waits for the water to come to a boil, her eyes drift over to the stack of papers on the kitchen table. She'll have to go through them eventually, but she cannot bring herself to do so right now. Not when everything is still too raw. She still needs time to process the news she had received that afternoon.

The whistle of the tea kettle cuts through the silence, but the sound reminds Margaret of a train whistle and sends her mind back into her memories from this same date exactly thirty-six years ago. Less than a month after she and Warren were married, the war in Europe had come to an end. Three months later, Japan had surrendered and the war was truly over. The people of Arcadia had taken to the streets in celebration, but Margaret had sat by the river and wept that the joyous day had come too late. Ben would be back in Arcadia by mid-September, and nothing could change the fact that she was already married.

She remembers standing on the train platform with her in-laws that September. It had felt as though an entire lifetime had passed since fourteen-year-old girl Margaret Anderson had stood on that same platform, waving goodbye to the young man she had only begun to fall in love with and worried she might never see him again. She had clasped her hands tightly to keep them from shaking and a horrible burning sensation formed in her chest when her fingers brushed against the gold ring on her left hand. For nearly four years, she had been dreaming of the day when Ben would return from the war. But when the day had finally arrived, she had stood on the train platform, heartbroken in the knowledge that she would not be able to run up to him and jump into his arms as she had always imagined. She knew what she felt for Ben, but she didn't know if he loved her in return. She had written to him back in February, but he had never written back. How would he react to seeing her standing beside Warren? If he was upset, would it mean that Ben had feelings for her? Or would he be indifferent, meaning that he never did? Or would he arrive with a young woman on his arm and announce that another Langston wedding would soon be taking place?

After several minutes, the train had emptied but there had been no sign of Ben. Instead, an Army lieutenant had made his way over to where the Langstons were standing, removed his hat, and Margaret could barely hear the lieutenant informing them that Ben would not be returning over the deafening pounding of her heart. She had sat on the bench beside her mother-in-law, and had been so relieved when she saw that the paper in Caroline's hand was not a telegram from the War Department, but rather a letter written in Ben's own hand.

Her mother-in-law read Ben's letter silently before folding it and placing it in her purse. In a measured voice, she told them that Ben had never planned to return to Arcadia. He had switched trains in Chicago and had not said where he was going or how to get in contact with him. "I suppose we'll just have to wait and see if he ever writes to us again," Caroline had said, and those words had caused Margaret's heart to plummet.

There was supposed to be a family dinner at the Langston estate that evening, but the celebratory mood had been spoiled and everyone had driven their separate ways. On the car ride back to the house, Margaret had stared out the window, not knowing what to feel. Ever since Ben had enlisted, she had been plagued by terrible nightmares of him being gunned down and slowly bleeding out – cold, scared, alone, and far from home. For a brief moment, she almost wished that Ben had died. She immediately hated herself for thinking such a thing, for being weak and selfish, for clinging desperately to hopes that continued to exist only so long as Ben was still alive. She would have to find a way to endure. Perhaps his decision not to come back to Arcadia was a mercy. _What the eye does not see, the heart cannot grieve_, she had told herself. It would have been too difficult to know he was so close by and yet so utterly out of reach. At least this way, she would not have to watch Ben fall in love with someone else, marry someone else, have children with someone else.

Years ago, he had told her that he didn't know if he would return to Arcadia after college. He was now twenty-two years old and would have graduated from the University of Chicago that spring. It seems even a world war could not change the things that were always going to happen. That afternoon, she had sat by the river and as the sun went down, she realized that Ben dying wasn't the worst thing that could happen. He had always had the freedom to make his own choices. And he had not chosen her.

* * *

She places her tea on the patio table and curls up in one of the wicker chairs. The night air is cool, and she can smell the lingering traces of this afternoon's rain showers mixing with the night-blooming tuberoses she and Jacob had planted late this spring. As she pulls her cardigan tighter, the glint of her wedding ring catches her eye. She doesn't know why she still wears it. She can't begin to count the number of times she had wished she could dissolve her marriage by simply slipping the ring off her finger. Just leave it on the dressing table as she walked out the door.

For Margaret, being married to Warren had been twenty-eight years of a thousand tiny heartbreaks. Whatever intangible thing was supposed to exist between man and wife never happened for them. It never changed, and it never grew. He never spoke to her unless it was absolutely necessary, never told her what he was thinking or what he expected. It was as if he simply expected her to be able to read his mind, and she'd had to endure his silences and his looks of disapproval when she got it wrong. None of the years of their marriage had been good, but the first one had been the hardest. She had married into Arcadia's most prominent family, and at times it felt as if her every move was under scrutiny. She had to learn how to be Mrs. Warren Langston all on her own. It had been overwhelming, but it had also kept her hands and her mind busy. And in those early days, she welcomed anything that would distract her from thinking about all the things were now lost to her.

She had been so relieved when Warren had drunk himself into oblivion on their wedding night. Months later, the marriage still had not been consummated, and an impatient Edward Langston had ordered Warren up to the Langston estate. She had laid in bed that evening, knowing what was to happen when Warren returned to the house, clearly intoxicated. The first time had been painful, both physically and emotionally. She had stared at the wall the entire time, trying to force her mind to go blank. It was one of the worst moments of her life, and she didn't want any thoughts of Ben anywhere near it. Warren had rolled off her immediately and left the room without saying a word. Once the door closed behind him, she let out the breath she had been holding, gathered the sheets, and made her way to the bathroom. She drew herself a bath and sat in the warm water, watching her teardrops mix with the bath water, until the physical pain eased. Only after she had put the sheets in the tub to soak overnight, changed into a new nightgown, and made up the bed with fresh linens did she allow herself to think about Ben. She was no longer a virgin, and it had not happened the way she had imagined. In her naivety, she had thought her virginity was something to be given to the boy she loved and who loved her in return. That night, she had understood why virginity was spoken of as something to be lost. It felt like something had been taken from her. The last time she had felt this confused, this tarnished was after she had witnessed the disappearance of those two Returned men. She had hugged herself and imagined that it was Ben's arms that were holding her after their first time together. She had imagined his gentle voice asking her if she was alright and how he would have nuzzled her hair and whispered that he loved her as they both drifted off to sleep.

Every time after that had been uncomfortable for her. Warren was not purposefully rough with her, but he never bothered with tenderness and he tended to his own needs quickly. There was a sort of detachment to everything Warren did, and it carried over to their marital relations. On the surface, Margaret had learned how to give off the appearance of a proud and self-assured woman. But inwardly, Warren's indifference towards her had wrecked her self-esteem. She had never had any illusions about her physical appearance. She knew she looked nothing like the buxom blonde women who turned men's heads, but she knew she was not ugly. But the way Warren refused to look at her face, especially during sex, only magnified the insecurities she had always felt. In the twenty-eight years they were married, he had never even seen her naked. They always had sex in complete darkness, removing only the pieces of clothing which were necessary, and Margaret would try not to think about what it meant that her husband needed to drink himself into a stupor before he would touch her.

Warren wasn't a bad man, but he was not the man she wanted. He was never violent towards her or the boys, and if he had affairs, he at least had the decency to be discreet about them. Instead, the heartbreaks had happened every time he made it clear just how indifferent he was to everything. His indifference towards her still stings to this day. But it had been Warren's indifference towards the boys that had wounded her more than anything else. She couldn't forgive him for that, and it had been the thing that had completely turned her against him. The times she had really tried to give their marriage a chance, to open her heart and let Warren in, she had done so for the sake of her children. And each time, it had only resulted in deep disappointment.

The day Henry was born was one of the most painful experiences of her life. Margaret had been so relieved that the child was a boy, for she knew better than anyone just how little control girls had over their own lives. She also hoped she would never have to share her bed with Warren again. Sitting in the hospital bed with her newborn son in her arms, she realized just how alone she was. Looking around the maternity ward, she noticed that the other girls were the same age as her. But unlike her, the husbands of the other girls were present, and all of them were young men, recently returned from the war and eager to begin their new lives. Tearfully, she had watched the family in the bed next to hers. The new father had brought his wife a bouquet of flowers, and the look on his face as he sat on the bed, holding his young wife and their child in his arms, was devastatingly beautiful. Margaret could only smile sadly as she looked down at the beautiful baby boy sleeping in her arms. If everything had worked out as she had so desperately wished, Ben would have been sitting on the bed beside her and the little boy in her arms would have been Jacob Langston. "I'm so sorry, my dear boy," she apologized to her son in a trembling voice as she placed a soft kiss on his cheek. "I'm so sorry that your father isn't the man I would have chosen for you."

Her father-in-law had been delighted with his grandson and declared that the boy would be named Henry. Margaret had looked at Warren, but when the small smile she gave him was met with his usual vacant stare, it was as if a part of her heart, a part that had once been warm and tender, had been replaced with something cold and harsh.

It had been so easy to imagine building a life with Ben, but for Henry's sake, she made an effort to build upon the gratitude she felt towards Warren. But Warren was indifferent to fatherhood. Becoming a father had no effect on him and he remained as lazy as ever, preferring to spend his evenings sitting in his armchair, listening to baseball games on the radio and downing glass after glass of whiskey. And as hard as Margaret tried to engage Warren in their son's life, he showed no interest in hearing about how Henry was progressing. Every night, she would sit in the rocking chair in the nursery and hum a lullaby as she nursed her son. She knew that when she looked up, Warren would not be standing in the doorway, looking at his wife and son like they were his greatest treasure. He would not kneel down to kiss Henry goodnight and then look into her eyes and smile. She had gone through the uncertainties of pregnancy and the pains of childbirth on her own. She had given him a beautiful son, and he could not even look at the two of them with even the smallest amount of affection.

Eight years later, she gave birth to another son. She had already done her duty by giving the Langstons an heir, and perhaps it was the delirium following the difficult birth that was to blame, but she had briefly believed that the birth of her second child was a sign that the marriage had grown. But when she woke the following day, feeling so weak and exhausted, Warren was nowhere to be found. Margaret held her newborn son that morning and could not hold back the tears when her son opened his eyes and looked at her for the first time. She spent the next three days confined to her hospital bed while her body recovered. It was during that time that she had developed a deep dislike of hospitals. She would not want to die in a place like this, where the seconds ticked away so slowly and the silence was unbearable. The endless sea of white sheets and white uniforms made her feel so isolated, made it so easy to look out the window and lose herself in melancholy thoughts as she drifted in and out of sleep.

Neither Warren nor his father, who never had any use for younger sons, ever came by to see the newest Langston. She felt immense gratitude towards her mother-in-law for picking Henry up after school and bringing him by every day, because she knew what a huge toll the war years had taken on her mother-in-law. She had withdrawn from public life, passing her days alone at the Langston estate and worrying about her younger son. And when the country went to war with Korea just five years after the last war had ended, it had been too much for Caroline's nerves. But when she held her newest grandchild for the first time, Caroline's usually calm and cool demeanor had melted away. It was the first time she had truly smiled in years. Frederick had thick brown hair and dark brown eyes, and he looked just like Ben.

* * *

Her tea has gone cold and so too has the night air. Usually, chamomile tea would help her fall asleep, but tonight sleep seems determined to elude her. She makes her way back into the house to grab her coat, deciding that a late night drive just might do the trick. At the top of the stairs, instead of going to her room, she stops outside the door of Henry's old room. _It will most likely be Jacob's room soon_, she thinks to herself. She opens the door and goes to sit at the foot of the bed like she had done so many times during the years when Henry had been away at college.

Henry had been the easier child to raise, always responsible and obedient and more eager to please. He had learned from an early age that the Langston Furniture Company would be his one day and had greeted the news with great enthusiasm. Unlike Warren, who seemed to view the responsibility of running the factory as a burden, not as a privilege. And while all of the good things Margaret had told Henry about the Langstons and the factory were true, they were also only half-truths. Sometimes, she worries that only exposing him to the positives has given Henry a black and white view of the world and that he has put the Langston name on a pedestal it doesn't fully deserve. She wanted Henry to be proud of his family and of the factory so that he would keep both of those things going. So that he could give some meaning to a decision his grandfather had made decades earlier, a decision neither Warren nor Henry knew anything about.

Raising Frederick had been another matter. He had been an absolutely delightful child in the beginning, a bright and active boy who showered her with affection, constantly throwing his little arms around her and pressing warm kisses to her cheek. And he used to laugh all the time. There was a time when tucking him in at night was the thing she most looked forward to. On her most difficult days, she would remind herself that if she just continued to push forward, she would get to sit beside her little boy at the end of the day and listen to his excited voice telling her about all the things he had done that day. She would stroke her son's hair as he slept and for just a few minutes, she would allow herself to indulge in the fantasy that Ben was sitting behind her on the bed, with his arms wrapped around her and his head resting on her shoulder, and that the sleeping boy they were both gazing at with such tenderness was their son. Every time she looked at Frederick, she would think of Ben and wish that her younger son had been conceived from love and passion and pleasure.

But by the time Frederick was four years old, his physical resemblance to Ben was the only similarity that remained. Suddenly, he seemed determined to always believe the worst about her and greeted everything she said or did with suspicion. As she had predicted, her father-in-law showered Henry with attention while completely ignoring Frederick. Her younger son was never invited along for fishing trips in the Ozarks or Cardinals games in St. Louis with his father and grandfather. She knew Edward was unlikely to be swayed by anyone, but she wished Warren or Henry would speak up for Frederick. Initially, she had been able to use the age gap between her sons as an excuse, but she knew that wasn't the real reason why he was being left out. And as young as he was, Frederick seemed to know when she wasn't being completely honest. When she would suggest that the two of them go to the movies or the ice cream parlor together, Frederick would interpret her gesture as pity and wouldn't hide his resentment. Had he been anyone but her child, she would have admired his perceptiveness and outspokenness. But his moodiness often made Margaret feel like she was walking on eggshells, never knowing if she would be met by Dr. Jekyll or Mr. Hyde. There were times he was so similar to Warren in temperament, given to self-pity and idleness, that it infuriated her. Then there were times when he would open his mouth and say the most hateful things to her. And in those moments, all she could hear was Edward.

Being Warren's wife had always been a thankless role, and often so too was being the mother of his two sons. There were so many times when the boys seemed to prefer Warren's indifference to her involvement. Whenever she punished Henry for breaking her favorite vase or gave Frederick a lecture about his schoolwork, they would respond with such coldness. It was as if they suddenly forgot about all the nights she had sat at their bedsides when they were sick. Or that she was the one who always made the arrangements so that they could go away to summer camp or sign up for Little League Baseball. She knew she was being unfair, but Henry's physical resemblance to both his father and his grandfather sometimes made it difficult for Margaret to look at him. With Frederick, his physical resemblance to Ben caused her to feel immense affection towards him while simultaneously being the very thing that made her keep him at arm's length.

She can only laugh when she thinks about how she too has adopted that unspoken Langston rule regarding terms of endearment and nicknames. Occasionally, she would call Frederick "Fred", but that was as far as she could go. She had noticed early on in their marriage how Warren would always refer to her by name. Even on the evenings when they hosted a dinner party or attended a social function, when they played the roles of Mr. and Mrs. Warren Langston flawlessly, Warren found ways of referring to her as anything but "my wife", as if such a word was too precious to ever be applied to her. There had been a time when Margaret had felt sympathy for Warren, but it had faded away every time he cast a dismissive glance in her direction or demanded a refill by shaking his empty glass at her in annoyance. She had given up so much, and after so many years of trying to meet Warren's expectations only to be met with indifference, her resentment towards him grew into hatred.

The day Warren died, Margaret felt like a wrongfully convicted prisoner who had been set free after serving twenty-eight years. She remembers that spring afternoon so vividly. She had been setting the dinner table, and Warren had been in the living room. The radio was broadcasting the evening news, and she could hear Warren pouring himself his first drink of the evening. She was just about to announce that dinner was ready when she heard the sound of a whiskey bottle shattering. She rushed to the living room to find Warren on the floor, clutching his chest. She hurried back to the kitchen to call for an ambulance, but her hand hesitated above the keypad. Warren was sixty-seven years old, overweight, and a heavy drinker. There was a good chance he would die no matter how quickly an ambulance arrived. The line had begun beeping, as the phone had been off the hook for an extended period of time. Snapping back to reality, she placed the emergency call and sat down at the kitchen table. As she stared at the freshly cut lilacs in the center of the table and waited for the ambulance to arrive, she was glad Henry and Lucille were at their apartment. It was also the first time she was actually glad that Frederick was running around somewhere with Barbara. She remembered what it was like to watch her own father pass away, and she was grateful that her sons would not have to go through that experience. Warren had died before the ambulance arrived. The next year, when she held her newborn grandson for the first time, she was grateful that the little boy would never know his grandfather, would never have to know what it was to be deeply disappointed by him.

* * *

It's just before midnight when she locks the front door behind her. She hears the creaking of the porch swing as a cool breeze blows past, and she thinks back to all the nights she had sat on the front porch, waiting up for Frederick and worried out of her mind. A frown darkens her face as it always does when she thinks about Barbara. From the beginning, Margaret had disliked Barbara's lack of manners and the way she would invite herself over to the Langston house at all hours of the day and night. Frederick and Barbara's relationship was tempestuous, and as the years went on, their relationship fell into a pattern that Margaret found unsettling. Every time Barbara came back into the picture, Frederick's mood would elevate to the point of mania. Inevitably, all that energy would need an outlet and it would be released in unacceptable ways. Margaret despised how irresponsible and disrespectful Frederick was whenever Barbara was around. He would be disruptive in class, play truant, skip baseball practice, and not show up for his shift at the factory. Barbara and her friends were more interested in partying and drinking and driving their cars recklessly around town. There were so many mornings where Margaret or Henry would have to go by the local diner and apologize for the way Frederick and his friends had behaved the night before. It especially embarrassed her how, after bothering the other patrons and the wait staff with their rudeness, they had the audacity to run off without paying. Whenever Margaret tried to talk to Frederick, he would respond with cold glares and rudely tell her to mind her own business. Barbara's parents were never of any help. After her first meeting with Barbara's parents, Margaret had gotten the feeling that the Ansells were greedy people who had no concern for their daughter's education or her reputation for being a wild girl. They seemed perfectly happy to look the other way, so long as a boy with the Langston name and fortune remained interested in their daughter.

Their breakups got worse and worse each time. Margaret would sometimes overhear the awful things they yelled at each other, and on a few occasions she had feared their verbal fights might escalate into physical ones. Though she loves her son, she was not proud of him in those moments. After a few days of sulking, Frederick would channel his energy back into the right areas: schoolwork, the high school baseball team, and helping out at the factory. But just as things were getting back on track, Barbara would show up at the house and Frederick would always take her back.

After four years of dating Barbara, Frederick's performance at school and on the baseball team had been too inconsistent to impress any college admissions boards or athletic departments. Frederick had let the opportunity to attend college, an opportunity she had been denied, slip away from him and she can't help blaming Barbara for that. Three years ago, the two of them had run off to a concert in Boston and gotten married. As displeased as she was to have Barbara for a daughter-in-law, Margaret was more saddened by the fact that her son had chosen not to include his family in such an important event. And she worried about what kind of marriage the two of them would have when their relationship had always followed an unhealthy pattern of co-dependence.

With Henry and Lucille, Margaret never had to worry. The two of them had met at the University of Missouri. Henry had graduated and come back to Arcadia, gotten himself an apartment, and was working at the factory while Lucille was still back in Columbia, finishing up her biology degree. The two years they spent living in different towns were good for their relationship. Unlike Frederick and Barbara, Henry and Lucille had met when they were older and had learned how to be independent. They learned how to be strong individually, so it came as no surprise that they were so strong together. Margaret appreciated that Lucille was smart, mature, modest, and courteous. She also knew that Lucille would make a good mother one day, and though they didn't always see eye to eye, they were united in their unfailing love for Jacob. Henry adored Lucille, and he never hesitated in expressing his affection and gratitude. On the day of Henry's wedding, Margaret had felt immense pride in knowing that she had raised a son who would be a good husband and a good father. She is glad that both of her sons had both chosen to marry for love, unlike Edward and Warren, who had both used marriage as a means to an end. But if she's being completely honest, some part of her is envious of her daughters-in-law. Lucille and Barbara had gotten to experience young love and now marriage to husbands who loved them. It appears her daughters-in-law would not be met with the same fates as Caroline McCormick and Margaret Anderson; they would never know the crushing loneliness that had once accompanied marrying into the Langstons.

* * *

She hadn't been planning to come here when she had decided to go for a late-night drive, but somehow it feels fitting that she should be sitting on the front porch of the old farmhouse tonight. The Anderson farm has stood empty since her dad died almost two decades ago. Warren hadn't hesitated in voicing his opinion to sell it off, making a derisive comment that it would be the first time the farm actually made money. But Margaret can't bring herself to let go of the place where she and her dad had been so happy for so many years. Their relationship had never been broken, but a distance had formed between them on Margaret's wedding day. And though the distance never grew wider, it had remained all but unbridgeable until the day Jacob Anderson died.

It still brings tears to her eyes every time she recalls that day. The workday had just ended, and the factory was mostly empty. Margaret was in her office, finalizing the monthly projections report with one of the company's newest accountants Richard Burke, when she suddenly got the feeling that something terrible was about to happen. She rushed to the windows of her office, which overlooked the factory floor. Her dad was swaying slightly, and then he suddenly grabbed his chest and collapsed on the floor. She yelled at Richard to call 911 as she ran out of the office, pushing her way through the handful of remaining workers who had gathered. One of the foremen, Jake Turner, quickly ushered everyone away. She held her dad's head in her lap, and they both looked at each other with tears in their eyes.

"I love you so much, and I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Meg. About everything. It was all my fault. I wish I'd been a better father to you," he said. His usually warm and steady voice was frantic and full of sorrow.

She had wanted to tell him that she didn't blame him, that she could not have asked for a better father, and that she loved him too. But in that moment she couldn't form any words. Instead, she looked into his eyes, eyes so similar to her own, and in a broken voice she could only choke out one word: "Dad." She watched the relief wash over him, glad that he knew all the things that she felt but couldn't express. He gave her one last smile and gently wiped her eyes with his sleeve, and she marveled at how he was the one comforting her in that moment. "My perfect little pearl," he whispered, tucking a lock of her long hair behind her ear, as his eyelids began to flutter. She placed her hand over his heart and felt it slow until it came to a stop.

A single tear rolls down her cheek and she quickly wipes it away with her sleeve. As she goes to stand up, she winces as she feels a pain in her side. A pain that has become all too familiar to her in the past year. The pain is sharp, but she resists bringing her hand to her side, not wanting to feel the traces of the scar on her abdomen through the fabric of her shirt. She takes a few deep breaths as she walks to the edge of the porch, and the pain gradually subsides. She leans against the porch rail and fidgets with her locket as her eyes find the old barn in the darkness. Even after all these years, seeing those two Returned men disappear when she was ten years old still haunts her. Edward Langston had called them demons, and she had believed there was something sinister about them, because she had seen what their presence had done to her dad, had seen how the light in his eyes faded a little more each time they returned. She can still hear the distraught cries of the man with the leg brace and the voice of the other man telling him that everything would be alright. She wonders if those men remembered all the times they had been hunted down and killed, and how awful it must have been to know that another painful execution awaited them. And yet the man with the leg brace had been crying because, as awful as life could be, he had still wanted to live. And the other man, who must have been just as scared and knowing that he was going to die again too, had comforted him. It confused her. How could those men be demons when they showed each other more humanity in that moment than the man who had ordered their deaths had ever shown in his entire life? She had never dared to ask the question aloud, knowing it would destroy her dad if he ever found out what she had witnessed that morning.

For years, she had wanted to expose the truth about the fire, but it would have been impossible to do so and to protect her dad at the same time. She never completely forgave Edward Langston, but she learned to let go of some of the resentment she felt towards him. The factory was not only the bloodline of Arcadia, it was also to be Henry's one day. To expose her father-in-law's villainy would have only satisfied her own spite and potentially do more harm than good. There were too many families that relied on the factory, just as the Andersons had, and she felt a responsibility to all of those families to keep the factory going and to train Henry to the best of her ability. Nothing could justify the deaths of those twelve workers, but she told herself that keeping the factory going was a way to make sense of what had happened, a way of honoring the lives that had been lost, including those of her and her dad. She may have hated the Langstons, but the factory was not to blame. It had been an instrument of good, and she poured her energy into making sure it continued to create opportunities and to lift families into the middle class. It had been at her insistence that the Langston Furniture Company pledged that its doors would always be open to veterans. She had been astute enough to know that the decision would prove popular with the people of Arcadia and ultimately be good for business. And it had given her a way to exact some degree of revenge on Edward and Warren by forcing them to honor Ben in some small way.

As the years went on, she came to need the factory for her own reasons. If it's true that the two great salvations in life are love and work, she now knows just how intrinsically linked those two things are. It was the love she felt for her beloved dad and her blameless children that had quelled the rage she felt towards Edward Langston. Hard work became its own reward. Warren could have his unearned glory and reputation as a savvy businessman and philanthropist for all she cared. She was only interested in protecting her dad and safeguarding Henry's birthright. Whatever regrets she might have, protecting the people she loves would never be one of them.

* * *

Back at the house, she makes herself a fresh pot of tea and sits down at the kitchen table, which is practically overflowing with various stacks of paperwork. Almost everything has been signed, attested, and notarized. There are only two documents that still need her signature.

The first one she signs without hesitation, naming Jacob as the sole executor of her safety deposit box at Arcadia Bank &amp; Trust once he reached eighteen years of age. Following her doctor's appointment this morning, she had gone by the bank to add one last item to the box. All of the items held some sentimental value to Margaret: some of her favorite photographs, a few pieces of jewelry that had been belonged to Margaret's mother, which she hoped would one day belong to the girl Jacob loved, as well as the title and the beneficiary deed stating that the Andersons' farm would belong to Jacob when he reached the age of majority. And then there were all of the letters Ben had ever written to her. She had considered destroying the letters several times, but she didn't have the strength to let them or Ben go. One of the reasons she had decided to rent the safety deposit box was so that she could keep the letters safe, fearful that they might be discovered and destroyed by either Edward or Warren. And she had not wanted the letters to be discovered by her sons, because while they most likely knew their parents' marriage was no great love affair, she did not want to give her sons proof that she never loved their father or open herself up to their judgment for it.

The last item, which she placed in the vault just this afternoon, was a gold pocket watch that had belonged to her dad. She had removed it from his coat pocket the day he died, but she hadn't opened it until she was sitting alone by the river after his funeral. The tears had come rushing out when she remembered how she had felt the beating of his heart stop, and yet the watch continued to keep perfect time. She had played with his pocket watch so many times as a little girl, but it wasn't until the afternoon of his funeral that she had discovered that the back of the watch could also be opened. And inside was a picture of her from when she was about twelve years old, smiling in a white dress and her long hair loosely cascading over her left shoulder. It had made her think about Ben and about whether his gold pocket watch continued to keep perfect time, whether it still held the lock of hair she had given him all those years ago.

Her fingers drift to her locket, a gift from Jacob for her birthday this past summer. _The last birthday I'll ever get to celebrate. The last gift I'll ever receive from Jacob_, she thinks to herself. She opens the locket, blinking back tears of both joy and sadness as she looks at the little photograph of her grandson housed inside. Jacob had been perfect from the beginning. For years, she had worried that her heart had become something malformed. It was as if every disappointment, every hurt done to her had pierced the warmest, most tender parts of her heart. And she had had to scramble to stop the bleeding by replacing that part with a piece that was made from the wrong material and never quite fit. But the first time she held her grandson, a little boy who shared the same name as her dad, it had felt as if something that had been broken for so long began to heal. She had fallen in love with her grandson immediately, and the fact that he loved her in return, that the two of them were thick as thieves, had been one of the few miracles she had been afforded. With his messy brown hair and warm brown eyes, he reminds her so much of another boy she had adored. A boy who had also been so playful and thoughtful at the same time.

Only one last piece of paperwork remains unsigned, and her hand hesitates over the signature line. She knows that Henry would never agree with her decision, and there is a part of her that does not want to sign the DNR form. Nothing about the situation seems fair. Edward Langston had been a cruel and greedy man, and he had lived into his eighties. Warren had been a lazy drunk, and he had lived to the age of sixty-seven. But she would not live to see her fifty-fifth birthday or see Jacob's eighth birthday in January. She had thought the changes to her body had simply been due to turning fifty. She had thought that she only felt the fatigue because she had finally slowed down enough to realize how tired she was. Just when she had felt confident that, between Henry, Jake Turner, and Richard Burke, the factory was in good hands and she could enjoy a well-deserved retirement of gardening and playing with her grandson, she had felt a sharp and sudden pain in her side. Earlier this year, her doctor had confirmed her suspicions: advanced metastatic ovarian cancer. She had been diagnosed in Stage III; the cancer cells were already in her retroperitoneal lymph nodes, meaning it was likely that the cancer had already spread to other nearby organs. Henry had immediately insisted the doctors do everything they could, and Margaret loved him for it. But she knows the odds were never in her favor. Even with everything the doctors could offer, the chances that she would survive beyond five years was only 1 in 3. And she did not want to spend the remaining time she had in a hospital bed, feeling worse from the cancer treatment than she had felt from the actual cancer. And she did not want money that could have been going towards Jacob's college fund to be spent on treating something for which a real cure was simply not available. So she had opted for surgery, followed by one cycle of low-dose chemotherapy. The four-hour surgery had left her with a large scar down her abdomen, and she had felt hollowed out, both physically and metaphorically. But recovering from the surgery was nothing compared to the constant nausea, the soreness in her throat, and the fatigue from just one cycle of chemotherapy. And while she does not consider herself to be particularly vain, she had been relieved that she had not lost her hair. She did not want for Jacob's lasting memory of her to be of a frail, bald woman wasting away in a hospital bed.

The fatigue never truly went away, but it wasn't until the familiar sharp pain suddenly returned a few days ago that she knew the cancer had recurred. The remission period had not lasted even six months, and this morning her doctor confirmed that the cancer had metastasized into her liver. She is now in Stage IV, and there is no Stage V. _It's a strange thing to know exactly what it is that you will die from_, she thinks to herself as she signs the document. There was something strangely comforting and also utterly disconcerting about it. It terrifies her to think about what may be awaiting her on the other side, and there is so much that she wishes had gone differently: that she had been brave enough to tell Ben how she felt about him, that her relationship with Frederick had been better, that she had gotten to travel, that the cancer had been detected sooner, that she could have decades with Jacob and any other grandchildren who might come along.

She looks at the stacks of paper on the kitchen table and lets out a deep sigh. In a few days, she will be back at the hospital for additional debulking surgery. She has done everything she can to make sure that her loved ones will be taken care of. All she can do now is hope for the best.

* * *

She remembers being wheeled into surgery and how the bright lights of the operating room had slowly dimmed as she counted backwards from one hundred for the anesthesiologist. Everything after that comes to her in incoherent fragments, and she does not know whether the surgery was hours or days ago. But she can tell that something went wrong. She cannot open her eyes, and the bedsheet feels like it's made of lead. Occasionally, she'll feel pain but she cannot locate where it's coming from, as if there is a disconnect between her mind and her body. There are two rhythmic sounds that seem to persist behind all the other sounds. One is higher in pitch and occurs more frequently; the second sound is more muffled and slower. She knows she's heard both of these sounds before, but she cannot quite put her finger on what they are, until her doctor's voice makes its way through the haze. She makes out certain terms – unexpected complications, extensive necrosis of the liver, systemic organ failure. It is then that she realizes the two persistent sounds are those of the cardiac monitor and the ventilator. She is in a coma and hooked up to machines that are keeping her alive.

Sometimes she hears Henry's voice telling her that everything is going well at the factory and that everyone is keeping her in their thoughts and prayers. Other times, she is aware of Lucille's voice and the rustling of the newspaper as Lucille reads to her. And then there are the times when Jacob's lovely voice is telling her about how much he is enjoying school, and when he describes the latest drawing he has made for her, she summons all her strength and tries to force her eyes open. But however hard she listens for it, she never hears Frederick's voice and that breaks her heart like nothing else she has ever experienced before.

So many times during her life, she had conjured up the voice of the Returned man saying, "It's okay. Just let go." She feels a deep breath fill her chest. She wills away the fear and the pain, and it's as if she can visualize the blankness her mind is slipping into in the blinding white light that begins to trickle into her field of view. She has no idea how much time passes, but the beeping of the cardiac monitor slows and the sound of the ventilator goes silent. The weight of the blanket covering her body dissolves into nothingness. She is finally able to open her eyes again, and suddenly there is only blue sky and fluffy white clouds above her as she floats on her back near the dock on the lake. The brief scent of burning wood is replaced by the sultry scent of gardenias in the height of summer, and it settles the way a beautiful memory does, into every last molecule of her being. She feels herself let go.

And then she wakes up.


	4. Chapter 4, 1: Nothing Left to Lose

"But sometimes the world disrobes, slips its dress off a shoulder, stops time for a beat. If we look up at that moment, it's not due to any ability of ours to pierce the darkness, it is the world's brief bestowal. The catastrophe of grace." - Anne Michaels, _Fugitive Pieces_

Chapter IV, Part 1: Nothing Left to Lose

**I. Margaret**

The weather has been unseasonably chilly for November, and a warm shower is a welcome relief to the knots and aches in her shoulders. _If only the warm water could also wash away the past thirty-six hours_, she thinks to herself, as she watches the water swirling down the drain. She is so lost in her melancholy that she doesn't notice that the water is gradually losing its warmth until her teeth begin to chatter. It is only then that she realizes that the minutes have been ticking away and that she is shivering, not just from the cold water, but because she is sobbing.

Everything had fallen apart. She doesn't want to think about how Preacher James might have been right after all and that it had been her family that had facilitated the arrival of something sinister into the world. She doesn't want to think about how everyone under this roof thinks the worst of her. She doesn't want to think about how the way Jacob looks at her has changed. And she especially doesn't want to think about the fact that she has died twice now. A horrible pain grips her chest, and she buries her face in her hands as she slowly sinks to the floor. She isn't a religious person, but if her past actions hadn't already damned her soul, she was surely damned now. She had done it to protect her family, but she had still done it. She had committed suicide and had knowingly let the other detainees drink from the poisoned chalice. And yet, the fact that she had died again seems to have no effect on the very people she had wanted to protect. _They don't even care_, she realizes, and a painful sob rips through her as her tears continue to stream down her cheeks. Her body is shaking uncontrollably from the force of her sobs and from the freezing water. Her wedding day had been difficult, watching her dad die in her arms had been difficult, knowing she would die from cancer had been difficult. But this moment is the most painful and lonely feeling she has ever experienced.

"It's okay. Just let go."

The Returned man's voice comes to her as clearly as it had that morning in the barn all those years ago. She looks up and watches the water rushing down at her, slowly losing herself in its steady patter against the shower tiles. She takes a deep breath and closes her eyes. Time seems to slow, and she feels the ache in her heart begin to ease. It's as if she's floating on her back near the dock on the lake again. She tries to imagine fluffy white clouds in a brilliant blue sky, but just as the sweet fragrance of summer gardenias drifts into the room, a different man's voice echoes in her ears.

"What is it you want, Margaret?"

Her eyes snap open. She shuts off the water, and the sound of her short, rapid breaths reverberates off the bathroom tiles. That voice had not been the one she was expecting to hear. Her heart continues to pound away furiously in her chest, an undeniable reminder that she is still alive – an undeniable reminder of just how close she had come to falling off the edge for good. And somehow, through the heartache and the loneliness, something akin to hopefulness finds its way to her. Because she realizes that if this is what it is to hit rock bottom, it also means she'll never feel lower than she does in this moment. And that realization is enough to stave off the temptation of letting go for a just a little while longer.

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After packing all of her items from the bathroom into her suitcase, she sits at the dressing table and feels the prick of fresh tears as she opens her jewelry box. She thinks back to all those times when she would sit at the dressing table, and how, as she was applying the finishing touch to her look, she would inevitably find Jacob leaning against the doorframe, watching her with a smile on his face.

On the night of that disastrous family dinner last month, as she was sitting at her dressing table and slipping on her shoes, she had looked up to find Jacob standing in the doorway. It had been something familiar, and it had warmed her heart to see her grandson smiling at her with such love and admiration in his warm brown eyes. He had walked over to the dressing table and rummaged through her jewelry box before taking out the pearl bracelet her dad had given her for her eleventh birthday, the bracelet Ben had helped pick out. "I think you should wear this one," Jacob had said, and he had smiled brightly as the two of them worked together to fasten the bracelet around her slender wrist. After telling him how handsome he looked, she had told him to run along and see if Lucille needed any help downstairs, and he had given her a big smile and said, "You look really pretty, Grandma," as he skipped out of the room.

A few nights later, Jacob had stood in the doorway again as she applied one last sweep of blush to her cheeks. She had taken his hand, and he had walked her down the stairs to the front door. She had knelt down and apologized that she would probably be back too late to tuck him in, but he had shrugged and told her to have a good time at dinner. And with the words, "You look really pretty, Grandma," he had pressed a warm kiss to her cheek.

She remembers everything about that night and the morning that followed in such perfect detail that it embarrasses her. Brian Addison had invited her out to dinner at the Arcadia Country Club, and the way his eyes had immediately found hers as she walked into the lobby had caused her heart to flutter. She had said hello, and he had gazed at her in a way that made her feel simultaneously nervous and exhilarated. The breathlessness in his voice when he said, "It's good to see you again, Margaret. You look lovely" had caused a blush to rise to her cheeks. They hadn't said anything as they made their way to the dining room, but he had been walking so close that his arm occasionally brushed against hers, and she could feel his eyes watching her during the entire walk to their table. It embarrasses her how she had let her guard down that evening and had revealed so much to a perfect stranger. But there was something in his warm brown eyes that made her feel like she could be honest with him and that he wasn't judging her, no matter what she might say. When they were sitting in the living room at his cousin's house, there had been a split second when she had forgotten that she had only met Brian that morning. There was something familiar about him, about how readily he smiled, about the natural ease he seemed to have with everyone. Whereas the sound of ice cubes being dropped in an Old Fashioned glass used to cause her to inwardly flinch, the sound had an almost musical quality to it when it was Brian who was pouring the whiskey. She had smiled as she looked at the various family photos that were spread throughout the living room. Until her eyes found the picture of William Kirk among the family photos.

Later that night, she had tossed and turned for hours thinking about her conversation with Rachael and worrying about Jacob's safety. Eventually, her mind had drifted to Brian, the thought of whom caused her heart to clench. His asking her out to dinner had been "strictly business" after all. He had seemed so sincere when he had told her that he found her interesting. But it had all just been part of his act, and she had rapidly blinked away the tears, scolding herself for foolishly believing that someone like him could ever be interested in someone like her.

The next morning she had confronted Brian with what she knew, and the way his handsome features had darkened had filled her with a sense of dread. She had met him less than a day ago, and yet she had felt a tremendous sense of loss at the idea that she would likely never see him again. The warmth and fascination she had seen in his eyes every time he had looked at her throughout the previous evening were gone, and she had felt her blood run cold.

"What is it you want, Margaret?" he had demanded. He had asked the question in a tone that was laced with indignation, but Margaret couldn't help noticing that he was the only person who had ever bothered to ask her that question. It had confused her. She was so hurt and angered by his deception, but a part of her had felt inexplicably flushed with desire. He was so tall and so handsome and was standing only a few short steps away from her. The air had felt electrically charged with all the things they hadn't said to each other, and the fevered desperation with which she suddenly found herself wanting him, as a woman wants a man, had made her feel as though her blood had not only thawed, but caught fire. She had needed to get out of there as quickly as possible, so she told him to call off his business deal with Henry and to stay the hell away from her family in the coldest, steadiest voice she could manage. When she got to the door, she had wondered if, and to her shame perhaps she even hoped, he would hurry over and slam the door shut to prevent her from leaving. _And do what?_ Why did a part of her want Brian to roughly grab her by the arm, push her up against the door, and press his lips to hers? Why did she want to spear her fingers through his hair, pull him close, and passionately kiss him back? She had cast one last backward glance over her shoulder, but Brian had remained rooted to the same spot in the living room, with an unreadable expression on his handsome face as he silently watched her walk out the door. And just like that, the thing she had dared to hope might be possible for the two of them just the night before was gone, irrevocably ended before it had even started.

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She realizes that she still doesn't have an answer to his question.

The sound of the floorboard creaking draws her attention to the doorway, where Jacob is standing in his familiar spot. But the look on his face is anything but familiar. She offers him a small smile, but his eyes dart away, causing her heart to plummet. As she finishes packing the jewelry box in her suitcase, Fred walks into the room to take her things down to his car. Jacob lingers in the doorway for a few more seconds before quietly walking over to where she's seated at the foot of the bed and handing her a folded piece of construction paper.

"I want you to have this. Jenny helped me finish drawing it just a few minutes ago. It's a picture of me and all the people who are special to me," he tells her, his eyes still staring down at his feet. She opens the drawing and smiles as she reads the names written below their respective cartoon figures: Tom, Baby Nathaniel, Rachael, Mr. and Mrs. Thompson, Marty, Jenny, Jacob, Mommy, Daddy, Maggie, Aunt Barbara, Uncle Fred, and Elaine. And at the very end is a woman in a black dress, with the word "Grandma" written underneath.

A single tear rolls down her cheek, and Jacob reaches out to wipe it away with his sleeve in a gesture that reminds her of her dad. She marvels at the perfect little boy in front of her, a boy who shares not only the same name as the great-grandfather he never met, but also his similar ability to comfort her. She thanks Jacob for the drawing and promises that she'll treasure it forever. He continues to stare at his feet, so she kneels down so that the two of them are at eye level. She gently lifts his chin and is about to ask him what's wrong when he suddenly throws his arms around her neck.

He's crying into her neck and repeating that he's sorry and that everything was his fault. His sobbing voice breaks Margaret's heart, and she holds her grandson tightly, kissing his hair and telling him not to blame himself. She wishes she knew what to say in this moment, but she doesn't know what she would have done differently if she could do it all over again. She had only wanted to protect her grandson, but all she'd ended up doing was making Jacob feel guilty or that he was somehow responsible for other people's actions.

"Are you mad at me?" he asks her in a small, tearful voice.

"Oh, Jacob. Of course not. I love you more than anything else in the whole wide world. Nothing could ever change that," she tells him.

He hugs her tighter and whispers into her ear, "I love you too, Grandma. I don't want anything bad to ever to happen to you. I don't want to lose you again. Please don't let go! Promise me you won't let go! Not yet."

She feels fresh tears threatening to spill, and she wonders if her grandson had heard her crying in the bathroom earlier or if he had somehow been able to feel how she had very nearly let go. Now it's her turn to wipe his tears with her sleeve. She presses her forehead to his, saying "I promise I'll be here for you for as long as I can, okay?"

Her words seem to reassure him, and he presses a warm kiss to her cheek before he leaves the room to get ready for bed.

She slowly rises to her feet and gathers her old quilt from the bed. Silently, she looks around the room, steeling herself for the walk down the stairs and out the front door. She doesn't know if she will ever be allowed to set foot in this house again, but it is not her house or her home anymore. She had never wanted to marry Warren, but after so many years in this house, the thought of living somewhere else leaves her feeling untethered – as if she's all alone on a drifting ice floe, surrounded on all sides by only the dark, cold sea. She draws in a deep breath and slowly exhales. It has been a difficult thirty-six hours, but they're over now. She cannot go back to being Margaret Anderson any more than she can stop being Henry and Fred's mother or Jacob and Maggie's grandmother. But as she stands there, all alone in the silence, feeling uncertain of the future and completely exhausted, she finally has the strength to do what she had dreamed about doing so many times before: she slips the gold ring off her finger, leaves it on the dressing table, and walks out the door without so much as a backward glance.

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The sky is pitch black when she arrives at her apartment building. Fred helps her carry her things up the stairs to her apartment on the third floor and repeats his offer to let her stay at his place or at the cabin, but Margaret tells him that this arrangement is what's best for everyone. On his way out the door, her younger son gently touches her arm, and Margaret understands that he is trying to apologize for the way he had roughly dragged her out of the house last night and that he's sorry about everything she's been through since yesterday morning. After he leaves, Margaret unpacks her things and tries to get some rest. The warm, queen size bed is a welcome change from where she had spent last night.

It had been well after midnight when Fred and Agent Bellamy returned to the house after escorting the preacher down to the station. The mob had disbanded, and Margaret had been helping Maggie and Henry clear the debris scattered throughout the house in a tense silence. Everyone was exhausted and eager to get some sleep, but Henry had remained adamant in his refusal to let Margaret stay in the house. The words had stung, but they paled in comparison to the realization that no one was going to stand up for her. So she had spent the night in the back of Fred's SUV. Sleep had eluded her, and the old quilt Maggie had grabbed for her off the living room sofa had done little to keep her warm against the bitterly cold night.

In the morning, she had wandered into town, knowing that everyone would prefer she not be at the house when Lucille returned with the children and that she not come back until after Rachael had been safely moved elsewhere. She had walked into the library with no expectations. She certainly hadn't expected to be offered not only a job, but also a fully furnished apartment located just a short walk away from the library. Margaret had been expecting something small and sparse, but what she walked into was a light-filled apartment, with French doors that opened onto a Juliet balcony and a lovely view of the park and Arcadia's main square.

"I lived here when I first moved to Arcadia. And then I bought the building and moved into the full-floor unit on the fourth floor, so this one's yours for the taking," Alex said nonchalantly, leaning against the dining table. "Tell you what, I won't charge you rent until after the New Year. It'll be a lot of work getting all the CDs in the library's music collection digitally transferred and catalogued by the end of the calendar year. But if you work every shift and put in some overtime, I have every confidence it'll get done." Alex's dark brown eyes had narrowed slightly as she added, "And I get the sense that you could use something right now to occupy your time, as well as your mind." The tall, young woman's perceptiveness had caught Margaret by surprise, but Alex simply smiled and held out a set of keys. "Take the weekend to think about it. I'll see you on Monday."

The sun was beginning to set when she arrived back to the house. Standing alone in the foyer, she could hear the evening news playing on the television, but she tuned it out, not wanting to consider the implications of Preacher James's warnings. Jacob and Jenny were coloring together at the dining table under Henry and Lucille's watchful eyes. Fred, Maggie, and Agent Bellamy were gathered around the television in the living room. No one said a word to her when they saw her. It felt like a hard slap across the face to be greeted with coldness by her loved ones, and she had silently walked up the stairs and began to pack her things.

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As she had anticipated, the first few days are the hardest to get through. It is dark when she leaves the apartment, and it is dark when she comes home at the end of the day. She finds the silence of the apartment unnerving at times, so she learns how to work the television and the stereo system so that she can have something playing in the background.

On her first day at work, she is greeted by a smiling Robin Campbell, who tells Margaret that she has also gotten a job at the library. And while the information desk is not where Margaret would have expected to find someone as meek as Robin to be working, Alex's perceptiveness is again on point as Robin's shyness melts away in just a few short weeks. Cut off from everything familiar, Margaret is grateful for Robin's company, and the two of them often have lunch together in the staff lounge. Archiving the library's music collection is somewhat tedious, but it allows her to lose herself in the sweeping melodies of Hindemith and Schubert and Tchaikovsky, rather than in her melancholy thoughts.

Some nights, she dreams about Jacob. In her dreams, the two of them meet on the swings in the park, and she mostly just watches as he swings back and forth, listening to his sweet voice telling her how school is going and how his parents are doing. She doesn't know whether her dreams are like the one she experienced with Rachael or if her subconscious mind is simply trying to help her cope with the difficult situation she finds herself in. But she wakes up feeling better than she did when she went to bed, and that will have to be enough for the time being.

The library is closed for Thanksgiving, but Margaret goes into work to distract herself from the fact that she is not spending the day baking apple pies with Jacob. On her way back to her apartment, she passes by Twain's, where the sidewalk sign lets her know that the restaurant is serving a Thanksgiving feast and that all Returned are welcome. She walks into a quiet and mostly empty restaurant, and when Elaine walks up to her, Margaret briefly worries that she will be asked to leave. But Elaine greets her with a smile, handing her a plate and some utensils, and wishes her a Happy Thanksgiving.

A few days before Christmas, her health insurance card arrives in the mail, and Margaret finds herself sitting on a bench outside Maggie's clinic. Her granddaughter does not look particularly pleased to see her, but she invites Margaret, albeit somewhat reluctantly, into her office. There are two things Margaret needs Maggie's help with. First, she asks Maggie to talk to Agent Bellamy and ask him if he can track down the gold locket Margaret had been wearing when she went to the government facility, explaining that the locket had been a gift from Jacob and that it would really mean a lot to her if she could get it back. Second, she asks for Maggie's help in locating a good oncologist in the area. There is a brief flash of concern in her granddaughter's eyes, and Margaret quickly reassures Maggie that she feels fine. It is not easy for her to admit, but she tells Maggie that she is worried – fearful even – that the cancer could always come back. And if it does, she just wants to be as prepared as possible. To her immense relief, Maggie agrees to help her without any hesitation.

But there is one condition.

So Margaret takes a deep breath and tells Maggie about what happened in the park with Barbara, fully aware that her honesty may permanently damage any chance of having a relationship with her granddaughter. "I know it's not what you want to hear, but I'm not sorry that Barbara's gone. I never liked your mother, and I was furious when I learned she had been unfaithful to your father. Your father isn't perfect, but he is my son. And I knew I could never forgive her for what happened to Jacob. So I told her that everyone was better off without her, and she believed it. It was her choice, Maggie, and she chose to give up on life, to let go." She pauses for a moment and tentatively places her hand on Maggie's before continuing. "But I am sorry for hurting you. I can still remember the turmoil in your eyes after it happened. Your eyes reminded me so much of my father's in that moment that it broke my heart. I told you I was sorry, and I meant it. You may never believe me, but I never wanted you to get hurt. And I am fiercely proud of you." She leaves it at that, telling Maggie the same words she had told Barbara: _We can't change the past. Only the future_.

She wakes up to a quiet apartment on Christmas morning. The snow is falling lightly, and as she stands on her balcony with a fresh mug of coffee and looks out at the snow-covered trees in the park, she thinks back to the last thing Brian had said to her: _What is it you want, Margaret?_

When she married Warren, she had had to let go of the shy, carefree girl Margaret Anderson had been and replace her with someone else. For decades, she had lived with a cloud hanging over her, fearful of what she would lose if the truth ever came out. In the end, despite all her efforts, her worst secrets had been exposed and the people she cares about had rejected her. But she is still here. And she realizes that she had always been so focused on protecting the Langston portion of her name that she had let the name she'd been born with slip away. She had let Margaret slip away. But after nearly two months away from the Langstons, it feels as if she has been slowly reclaiming the parts of herself that she had hidden away over the years. And ever since that last night in the Langston house, when she had very nearly given up, the thought of letting go has not crossed her mind again.

She knows now that she doesn't want things to go back to the way they were. What she wants is for things to be better than they'd ever been.

On New Year's Eve, Fred comes by with some belated Christmas leftovers, as well as gifts from her grandchildren. From Jacob, there is a handmade Christmas card and a couple flower seed packets. Jacob had always been a thoughtful boy, and it warms her heart that he remembers how much she enjoys gardening. She will miss not having a garden when spring arrives, but she decides she can always get a flower box for the balcony. Fred hands her a small box, the amusement obvious in his voice when he says, "It's from the M&amp;Ms, Maggie and Marty" that she finds herself smiling too. She opens the box, and her eyes fill with tears at the sight of her gold locket in the red and green tissue paper. Maggie has also included the business cards of several oncologists and some handwritten notes about each doctor on the back of the cards. Fred's gift is a cellular phone, and he has already programmed everyone's information into her phonebook for her. She spends that afternoon reading the user manual, astonished at how much technology has been packaged into such a small object. When she accesses the photo album, her face breaks into a smile: Fred had used the phone to take several photos and videos from Christmas at Henry and Lucille's for her.

As she watches the fireworks from her balcony window that night, she's glad she didn't let go. It feels as if the tide has begun to turn, and she looks forward to the New Year with a hopefulness she hasn't known since childhood.

Just days later, Margaret is assisting Robin at the information desk when her nine-year-old grandson comes running into the lobby. She kneels down and catches Jacob as he runs into her arms. He presses a warm kiss to her cheek, and they exchange smiles as she wishes him a happy birthday. Lucille walks over to them and though she still looks at Margaret with a certain degree of distrust, she extends an olive branch of sorts by telling Margaret that the library might be a good place for Jacob and Jenny to spend a few afternoons a week. She also mentions that Jacob's Little League Baseball team will begin playing their games in the park starting in March.

As they head towards the door, Lucille hands her a business card, and Margaret's heart leaps into her throat when she sees that it's Brian Addison's. He had stopped by the Langston house a few days ago, and after a brief conversation with Henry, he had asked them to give Margaret his card and to let her know that he'd like to apologize to her as well. In person.

Her mind is distracted the rest of that afternoon, and she catches herself staring at his phone number on multiple occasions. She thinks back to the last time she saw Brian, remembering the ache that had weighed down her heart when she had walked out the door and he hadn't come after her. Now, her heart races with nervous anticipation at the very real possibility of seeing him again.

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On a snowy Saturday evening in mid-January, instead of heading back to her apartment after finishing her shift at the library, Margaret allows herself the indulgence of dining out after a productive week. She walks into Twain's and takes a seat at the end of the counter. She's still perusing the menu when Elaine comes over and informs her that her meal has been paid for by the handsome gentleman in the corner booth. Margaret smiles and looks to the back of the restaurant, expecting to see Jacob sitting in the booth with his parents. Instead, the handsome gentleman turns out to be Brian. Her heart begins pounding, and she quickly grabs her coat and heads for the door.

* * *

**II. Brian**

It begins as an uneventful business trip to St. Louis, but when the business meetings wrap up ahead of schedule, Brian makes the fateful decision to spend the weekend at his cousin Jeremy's house in nearby Arcadia. Nothing could have prepared him for what he would find when he pulls into the driveway. Standing on the front lawn is a young man who looks identical to the grandfather Brian had never met, the grandfather he had only ever seen in family photographs. The man introduces himself as William Kirk – the same William Kirk who had died in 1935.

Though it's been nearly eighty years since his death, those eighty years feel like only a few minutes to Brian's grandfather. He has returned to find that nothing is as he remembers it, and when Brian shows him the newspaper clippings in one of the family scrapbooks, his grandfather is absolutely furious. His death had been reported as a trucking accident, when in actual fact, Edward Langston had sealed off the varnish room, trapping William and eleven others inside, to prevent the fire from spreading to the rest of the factory. In an eerily calm tone that sends a chill down Brian's spine, his grandfather states that the Langstons need to be punished for their crimes.

Agreeing to help his grandfather in any way he can, Brian spends the next few days in front of his laptop researching the Langstons and the Langston Furniture Company. And when he comes across _her_ picture for the first time, it is as if a tidal wave has suddenly crashed into him. The photo is a small one, a grainy, black-and-white photo from an old newspaper article. But none of those things can change the fact that Margaret Langston is the most beautiful woman Brian's ever seen. His elation is short-lived though, and his heart plummets when he realizes that the newspaper article he's looking at is an obituary from 1981. Margaret had passed away the same year he had graduated from business school; her life coming to an end at the same time that his was just beginning. He sits on the patio deck that evening, staring off into the darkness, unable to wrap his head around the profound feeling of loss he feels for someone he had never even met. _Someone I'll never get to meet_, he thinks with a dejected sigh. The next morning, he re-commits himself to his grandfather's plan with the renewed fervor of a man trying to bury his grief.

It doesn't take long for Henry Langston to take the bait, and Brian finds himself standing in the kitchen of the Langston house on a sunny morning in early November. Their business meeting is interrupted by the most beautiful voice Brian has ever heard, and when he turns around, he is staring into the pale blue eyes of Margaret Langston. The sensation of being slammed into by a tidal wave returns, and he cannot believe his eyes. Or his luck. He had caught himself staring at her picture several times over the past few days, but to see her with his own eyes completely overwhelms him. The formidable Margaret Langston is a petite, slender woman with the most breathtakingly blue eyes and flawless skin. She extends her hand in greeting, and when his hand makes contact with her soft skin, he feels as if he's been struck by lightning. Over the years, he had heard his friends and family describe this feeling, but he had never quite understood what they meant, had never experienced it for himself until this moment: the feeling of being deeply panicked and deeply calm at the same time. As he's walking beside her after his meeting with Henry, he somehow summons the courage to ask her to join him for dinner that evening. And she says yes.

When Margaret walks into the Arcadia Country Club that night, it's as if he's watching everything unfold in slow motion. She looks positively stunning, and he is rendered speechless by the color of her eyes. This morning, they had appeared pale blue in the bright sunlight; tonight, in the soft glow of candlelight, there is a hint of emerald green to them – the same shade of emerald green as the dress she's wearing. The dress that tightly hugs every inch of her perfect figure. He can't tear his eyes away from her that evening, and he hangs on her every word. When she apologizes for monopolizing the conversation, he assures her that she is not boring him, very nearly blurting out that he could gladly listen to her voice all evening. In fact, he wants to know more about her. She seems surprised to hear him say that and tells him that she's not very interesting. And though he's been taught that a gentleman never disagrees with a lady, he has never met anyone who fascinates him the way she does. "I think you are," he tells her, and her reaction makes him wonder if she's ever been told that before. Her eyes lock onto his in a way that he can only describe as flirtatious, and he knows that this is one of those rare moments in life when everything has come together perfectly, as if the entire universe has somehow conspired in his favor.

Every second of that evening feels both new and familiar. He invites her back to the house for coffee, and when he sees her smiling at him from her seat on the leather sofa, there is a split second when it feels as if he's being offered a glimpse into the future, one that feels possible and fits like a well-tailored suit. He can't stop smiling as he prepares the coffee in the kitchen.

But then he hears her gathering her things and heading for the door. She assures him that he hasn't done anything wrong and that she's had a lovely evening, but she hurriedly walks out the door without offering any explanation.

He's still standing in the foyer in stunned disbelief when his grandfather emerges from the study, angrily demanding to know why Brian had invited Margaret to the house. He quickly tries to assure his grandfather that their cover hasn't been blown. William doesn't seem completely appeased. "You could have blown this whole damn thing. Don't forget whose side you're on, young man," his grandfather says to him in a menacing tone.

If he's being completely honest, Brian finds himself wavering in his commitment to his grandfather's plan; his immediate concern is keeping Margaret safe from anything William might have planned. He tosses and turns all night, feeling trapped between wanting to help his grandfather and desperately wanting to see Margaret again. She has awakened something deep within him, and he feels his life veering off the familiar path.

The next morning, there is a knock at the door and Brian's heart skips a beat when he sees that it's Margaret.

"You didn't mention you were related to William Kirk," Margaret says with contempt in her eyes and in her voice. He tries to keep the conversation casual, but the coldness in her eyes leaves no doubt that she knows he's up to something – something that would harm her family and is therefore unforgivable.

He is rooted to the spot as everything comes crashing down around him in a deafening roar. He has lived a charmed life, and he knows it. But everything he thought he knew had disintegrated a week ago. Now, there is a clear demarcation to his life, and it all centers around the moment he had discovered Margaret's picture. It was the first time he had ever experienced love at first sight, only to find out that the woman who had taken his breath away was a woman he would never get to meet. But then a few days later, Margaret had walked into the kitchen, and it was as if his world had gone from black-and-white to ultra-high definition. He had been granted one nearly perfect evening with her, where time had stood still just long enough for their two lives to intersect. And now this beautiful woman, whose smile had the ability to make him experience every emotion as if for the first time, would vanish from his life, leaving him to grasp in vain at nothing but memories. It feels like the universe has waited over fifty-seven years to play a cruel trick on him. Temporarily blinded by the anger that is coursing like a poison in his veins, he wishes he had never come to Arcadia, that he had never met her. Something inside him shuts down, and he can no longer bear to be in the same room as her.

"What is it you want, Margaret?" he asks, regretting the bitterness of his tone almost immediately when Margaret's eyes take on a slate grey quality, and an emotion he can't identify flashes across her face.

"Kill the deal. And stay the hell away from my family," she says, her voice completely devoid of emotion.

She walks past him, and the smell of her perfume settles heavy and sweet in his chest. Now, it is not anger that is causing his blood to boil, but desire. He wants to tangle his fingers in her silky hair as their lips come crashing together. He wants to fall backwards onto the leather sofa, pulling her with him and onto his lap, mold his hands to her hips and feel her fingers curl into his hair, their tongues battling each other's for dominance the entire time. He lets his imagination run wild with the idea of flipping her flat onto her back, pinning her arms above her head, and tracking the scent of her perfume – from the inside of her slender wrist, along her arm, and over her shoulder – until his lips locate the pulse point on her neck. With a single handshake, it is as if the textures of her skin have been imprinted on his palm. And if he is certain of only one thing right then, it is this: that his hands will continue to burn with desire until he feels her skin against his own again. He wants her with a desperation he has never felt for any other woman before. She gives him one last look as she stands at the open front door, but Brian cannot form any words. He doesn't know what to say to prevent Margaret from walking out the door and out of his life. The door closes softly behind her, and his world slowly begins to desaturate.

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He sits on the back porch of his mother's house the Friday after Thanksgiving and watches his grandnieces and grandnephews as they chase the dog through all the leaf piles in the backyard. Their peals of laughter bring a huge smile to his face, and he realizes it's the first time he has actually smiled in the weeks since he left Arcadia.

"There's that winning smile I love so much," he hears his mother say as she takes a seat next to him on the wicker loveseat. "I can't remember ever seeing you looking quite so weary, my dear. When I called your office on Monday to find out if you'd be coming up for Thanksgiving, Erica said you've been working from home ever since you got back from St. Louis. You want to tell your dear mother what's going on?"

His smile vanishes immediately. He knows he should talk to someone, but he doesn't know how to explain to his mother what he doesn't understand himself. He doesn't want to lie to her, but how could he tell her that the William Kirk he met in Arcadia had not been a good person, but rather a man who had been consumed by his rage and fueled by his desire for vengeance?

"I met someone, Mom. . . and I really screwed it up," he says, shaking his head. He explains that the reports of people returning from the dead that have dominated the news over the past few weeks are true and that the phenomenon began in Arcadia. Though he doesn't lie to his mother about what happened, he doesn't divulge any specifics about William. His mother had never really talked about him, though Brian doesn't know whether it's because the topic is a painful one for her or if it's simply because she has no real memory of her father. Not wishing to speak ill of his grandfather, Brian tells his mother that he had been approached by a Returned man who had died in the same trucking accident that had taken William Kirk's life. But the death of the factory workers had been no accident, and after the Returned man revealed what had actually happened at the factory on that fateful day in 1935, Brian had agreed to help the man get his revenge against the Langstons.

"I was angry when I found out what had really happened to my grandfather, so I agreed to help the Returned man. I knew he wanted the Langstons' money, but I foolishly thought he cared about justice too. The plan was for me to pose as a potential investor and to lure Henry Langston into a bad business deal. But when I met with Henry, the way he spoke with such pride about his family and the factory . . . it was obvious he had no idea what the Langstons had done. On top of that, the factory had closed in the 1980s, not long after Henry's only son died. The boy – his name's Jacob – he was only eight years old when he drowned in the river behind their house, Mom. And I thought, maybe the Langstons had already been punished enough. I explained all of this to the Returned man, but he was determined to go forward. It didn't matter to him that Jacob had died or that the Langstons no longer had the wealth and influence they once had or that all the people who were responsible were long gone. He had accused the Langstons of being greedy, but he was just as bad as they were. He had no interest in getting justice for those twelve factory workers at all – it was always just about money. I told him that things had gone far enough and that I wasn't going to help him swindle innocent people. He called me a disgrace, a traitor," Brain says, his jaw tensing at the memory of having those offensive words thrown at him. "That was the last thing he ever said to me."

"He's wrong, Brian. You did the right thing. I'm proud of you," Rebecca Addison says, gently squeezing his hand. "So, how does your mystery woman fit into all of this?"

"Your father worked for Langston Furniture when Jacob Anderson was the head foreman. He had a daughter who was a few years older than you – Margaret. Did you ever meet her?"

"I don't remember much from back then, honey. Probably only went to the factory once or twice, but I remember seeing the same girl there each time – a girl with very lovely blue eyes."

Brian feels a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "That sounds about right," he says.

"Why do you ask about her?"

"Because that girl you met all those years ago? Her name's Margaret Langston now. She's Henry Langston's mother."

"Is that right?" his mother asks cheerfully. "I can't say I'm surprised those two ended up together."

"What do you mean?" he asks, his brow knit with confusion.

"Well, she and Benjamin Langston were always running around the factory together. Thick as thieves, those two."

"Wait. _Benjamin_ Langston?" Brian had come across that name only a handful of times while researching the Langstons, but there had been no mention of him since the 1940s, and Brian was under the assumption that the young Army captain had been killed in action. "No, Margaret was married to Warren Langston, the eldest son."

"My goodness! Warren was the same age as your grandfather!" his mother exclaims, her eyes wide with shock. Rebecca searches her youngest son's face for a moment. She can see the sadness in his brown eyes, but there is also an unmistakable glimmer to them. "Is Margaret the reason why you look like you haven't eaten or slept in weeks? The reason you're all tangled up?"

He gives her a small smile and nods his head slowly. "She died in 1981, when she was just fifty-four years old. But then she came back. And I met her. And she's the most beautiful woman I've ever seen, smart, loyal, so confident and yet so vulnerable at the same time. And her smile! Every second I was with her, I felt so panicked and so calm - panicked that I'd say the wrong thing when I was trying to impress her, and calm because she made me feel like everything was possible." He lets out a deep sigh. "I felt like we could build a great life together. I've never experienced anything like it before, Mom."

"Oh, my dear boy!" his mother exclaims, the joy so apparent in her eyes that it pains Brian to have to give her a sad smile and shake his head.

"No, Mom. Nothing ever really started . . . and yet, it's all over now. Somehow, she found out about the Returned man's scheme to harm her family and about my involvement. She was so angry with me the last time we saw each other, and I don't think she'll ever forgive me. I wish I could say that I backed out of the plan because it was the right thing to do. But, honestly? I did it because she told me to. Because it was what she wanted, and I-I want her to have everything she wants . . . even though I knew it meant I'd never see her again." He scrubs his hands over his face, wishing he could forget the sight of her walking out the door, and feeling his temper rising again. "The entire flight back to L.A., I kept telling myself that I had only spent one day with her. One day! With someone I was never even supposed to meet! I keep telling myself that I'll get over it. But I can't stop thinking about her."

Everything about his life in California has lost its lustre. In the past, he would put in long hours at the office any time something was bothering him. Now, he's grateful for his senior partner status, as it allowed him the freedom to spend his days however he wanted, no questions asked. He has felt absolutely miserable since he left Arcadia. Every evening, he had sat on his apartment terrace at sunset, but the once-incredible views of the city's skyline could no longer bring a smile to his face. He had spent almost every day of the past two weeks aimlessly wandering between his favorite places in L.A., but nothing had eased the tension inside. When he had decided to get out of the apartment and grab an espresso at Stumptown Coffee early one morning, there had been a woman in an emerald green dress standing in line ahead of him. He could smell traces of Margaret's perfume as he wandered through the Central Garden at the Getty. Standing at the end of the pier in Santa Monica, the vast blue ocean had only reminded him of Margaret's incredible eyes. Even a strenuous hike up to Griffith Park hadn't done the trick. He had lain in bed that night, trying to focus his mind on the physical ache he felt in every muscle, but thoughts of her still found a way through. He has had no appetite and has hardly slept in weeks. On the rare occasions when he had managed to fall asleep, he would dream about her – about stopping her from walking out the door that morning, about how the bright sunlight filtering in through his bedroom window would bring out all the shades of chestnut and auburn in her hair, about watching her blue eyes change colors as he uses his mouth to explore every perfect inch of her.

Just days before Thanksgiving, he had been seriously considering spending the holiday alone. But the thought of seeing his family gathered together in his childhood home was a comforting one, and he knew how much it would mean to his mother if he came up for a few days. He wasn't in the right state of mind to be driving from Los Angeles to Seattle, but he had wanted to indulge his need for solitude a little while longer. The scenic drive up the coast had been therapeutic, and when he arrived at his mother's house, knowing he had made someone else happy had helped loosen some of the knots in his shoulders.

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The sun is setting when they light the fire pit in the backyard for the kids to make s'mores. Everyone is gathered around the fire, but Brian stands off the side. He hears his mother walking towards him, and he makes an effort to smile as she slides her arm through his.

"You know, you'll need a place to stay when you go back to Arcadia," she says, matter-of-factly. "And since you'll be staying there for a long time, I'm sure Jeremy would be happy to sell the house to you for a very reasonable price. I know how much it meant to Charlie to have a house in the town where we were born, but it's not fair to Jeremy to have to take care of it from all the way out in Phoenix."

Brian's expression has grown serious again, and his mother takes his hand in hers, telling him, "If you're worried about how the rest of the family would feel, don't be. It was a long time ago, and we can't change the past. It's so easy to think our lives would be perfect if that one thing had or hadn't happened to us, but it's wishful thinking, Brian. Of course I wonder what it would have been like if my father hadn't died, but look how wonderfully everything worked out for us. I can't imagine what it was like for your Grandma Lillian, being a widow with two young children at the age of twenty-five. But she didn't let her grief destroy her. She took me and Charlie out here to Seattle and started over. She got a job at her brother's law firm, and it led her to a man named Theodore Walsh. He absolutely adored your Grandma, and he adopted me and Charlie – made the four of us a family. William Kirk will always be my father, but I didn't know him. Grandpa Teddy was my dad. He loved me and Charlie like we were his own, and he was the one who walked me down the aisle on my wedding day."

She reaches up and gently holds his face in her hands. "Life's nothing without that spark, Brian. This lovesick feeling – when it happens, it never really goes away. And maybe the reason why Margaret's so angry with you is because she liked you as much as you like her. Maybe she's just as heartbroken as you are."

For the first time since he'd left Arcadia, he re-experiences the sensation of being slammed into by a tidal wave. He has no doubts about the way he feels about Margaret, but he had never allowed himself to hope that a woman as overwhelming as her would ever choose to be with someone as ordinary as him. He had been paralyzed with doubt the last time he saw her, letting her walk out the door and out of his life, because he had been so certain that the sparks he had felt between them the previous evening had been entirely one-sided.

"Just be honest with her. And keep being honest with her. She deserves that much. As hard as it's been for the two of us to learn the truth about what really happened, just imagine how difficult it's been for Margaret – if she's known the truth since she was just a little girl and had to keep it all a secret for so long. I don't think anyone has suffered from that fire as much as that poor girl has," his mother tells him in a sorrowful voice. "But, it's like you said: the people who were responsible for what happened are long gone and the Langstons have already been through enough. It's time to let go of the past. The only thing that matters to us Addisons remains unchanged: we just want you to be happy, my dear."

A smile brightens his handsome face, and he's about to hug his mother when she stops him with a smirk. "Can I offer you a bit of dating advice first?" she asks, patting his bearded cheek. "You might want to reacquaint yourself with some Gillette products before you go after your lovely lady. As popular as this look is with the locals, I imagine the odds will be more in your favor if you don't look quite so unkempt when you come a-courting."

The gentle teasing in her grin and in her voice makes him chuckle, and he hugs his mother tightly, lifting her slightly off the ground and earning himself a playful slap, before the two of them walk arm-in-arm and join the rest of the Walsh-Addison clan gathered together around the fire.

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He walks into Twain's on a snowy Saturday afternoon in mid-January and slides into the corner booth at the back of the restaurant. The coffee isn't great, but he appreciates the free refills and the fact that the restaurant is mostly empty. Looking out the window at the swirling snow and the bare trees of the park, he still can't quite believe that he's now a resident of Arcadia, Missouri. After growing up in Seattle and having lived in California since college, he never would have pictured himself living so far away from the ocean. But there are things about Arcadia that no other place can offer, and he would gladly trade a lifetime of waking up to the vast blue of the Pacific Ocean for just one more look into Margaret's ever-changing blue eyes.

By the end of the Thanksgiving weekend, he had written his cousin a check for the full asking price on Jeremy's pickup truck and on the house in Arcadia. As soon as he got back to Los Angeles, he had put in a request to be transferred to his company's St. Louis office, and his broker had almost immediately found a buyer for his apartment. He had enthusiastically packed up his life in California and set out on the nearly thirty hour drive to Arcadia a few days before Christmas. Somewhere outside Albuquerque, a song he hadn't heard in years had come on the radio.

_So I packed my car and I headed east _  
_Where I felt you fire and a sweet release _  
_There's a fire in these hills that's coming down _  
_And I don't know much but I found you here _  
_And I cannot wait another year_

It had felt like a reassurance from the universe, the rediscovering of true north after too many weeks of drifting.

His first night back in Arcadia was the first time he had gotten a good night's sleep in over a month. On Christmas morning, he had stood on the snow-covered patio deck with a mug of coffee and felt calm for the first time in weeks. The house is his to do with as he pleases, and he had initially only planned to stay here until he found a new place. A part of him is eager to live somewhere other than the house where he and his grandfather had exchanged harsh words with each other, the house that is inextricably linked to the memory of Margaret walking out the door. But, perhaps out of loyalty to his Uncle Charlie and the prospect of turning the large backyard into something really beautiful, he had decided he would at least try to build a new life and new memories in this house.

He had paid a visit to the Langston house a few days after the New Year. Henry Langston did not appear the least bit pleased to find him standing on their front porch, but he had invited Brian in and listened to his apology. He hadn't lied last autumn when he had told Henry that there is tremendous investment potential in the factory's land and buildings. But Henry, who appears to now know the truth about the fire in 1935 has washed his hands of the place, content to let it continue in its abandoned state. Afterwards, as he was leaving the Langston house, Brian had noticed Jacob Langston spying on him from the top of the stairs. When he had met Jacob last November, he had gotten the feeling that the young boy knew a lot more than he let on. On this afternoon, the look on Jacob's face had been one of curiosity, rather than suspicion, and he had even returned Brian's smile with one of his own. Standing on the front porch with Henry and Lucille, he had asked after Margaret, and Henry's jaw had tensed at the mention of his mother's name. Thankfully, Lucille had graciously stepped in, offering to pass his business card along to Margaret.

Almost two weeks have passed, and there has been no word from Margaret. But he remains hopeful. To know she is so nearby leaves him feeling slightly out-of-breath, a swirling mixture of agony and euphoria. Every second since he's been back in Arcadia, he feels as if he's on the verge of something – as if every moment is teeming with the possibility of being _the _moment when Margaret will finally walk back into his life.

And on a snowy afternoon just a few weeks into a new year, the longed-for moment finally arrives. Elaine is refilling his coffee, and just when he looks up to say thanks, Margaret walks into the restaurant. Her cheeks are full of color from the cold and there are snowflakes in her hair, and Brian can literally feel his breath being taken away. Had time and distance made the heart grow fonder, or had the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen become even more stunning? He can feel his heart fluttering like a compass needle as he asks Elaine to let the woman at the end of the counter know that he'd like to buy her dinner. Even from the other side of the restaurant, the smile that forms on Margaret's face is the brightest thing in the room. But when her eyes finally land on him, that bright smile, clearly intended for someone else, fades away in an instant.

She blinks her eyes rapidly in dismay, and an almost anguished look flashes across her face. Every sound becomes muffled, as if he's been pulled under by the tidal wave, when he realizes that she's rapidly gathering her things and making a beeline for the door. Through the window, he watches her pull on her coat and make her way into the park. A horrible tightness forms in his chest, and he feels his entire body burning up with panic. He knows he does not have the strength to witness the unbearable moment that looms only a few seconds away – the moment when Margaret will disappear into the gusting snow, leaving him staring into a blindingly white and blank space.

He turns his head away so rapidly that he's momentarily stunned from the whiplash. He looks down at all the things spread out on the table – phone, keys, wallet, business proposals, coffee mug – and blinks in confusion. Everything looks and feels out of place. It's the third time now that he's watched Margaret walk out the door, and that realization snaps him back to reality. Now, his heart pounds with the boldness of a man standing at the starting line of the rest of his life. He should have gone after Margaret the last time, should have had her in his life these past two months. He can never get those two months back, but he's not about to make the same mistake again.

_Life's nothing without that spark_.

He leaves everything on the table, not even bothering to grab his coat, and runs after her.


	5. Chapter 4, 2: Something to Hold Onto

"In every childhood there is a door that closes . . . only real love waits while we journey through our grief. That is the real trustworthiness between people. In all the epics, in all the stories that have lasted through many lifetimes, it is always the same truth: love must wait for wounds to heal. It is this waiting we must do for each other, not with a sense of mercy, or in judgment, but as if forgiveness were a rendezvous. How many are willing to wait for another in this way? Very few." –Anne Michaels, _The Winter Vault_

Chapter IV, Part 2: Something to Hold Onto

The snow is falling lightly, and as Margaret enters the park, she mentally chastises herself for the way she had practically run out of the restaurant like a silly schoolgirl when she saw Brian tonight. The searing blush of embarrassment lessens the farther she walks from the restaurant; in its stead, a chill comes over her as she frets over the answer to the question that has suddenly begun to nag at her: Brian hadn't come after her the last time, so what in the world makes her think this time would be any different?

She knows that in a town as small as Arcadia she wouldn't have been able to avoid running into him forever, but she had not been prepared to run into him this evening. Though if she's being honest with herself, she would probably never feel fully prepared to see him again, not when the recollections of how unpleasantly everything had unraveled in November still feel as sharp as ever. Adjusting to her new life away from the Langstons is still an ongoing and often difficult process, but she had adjusted: she has a job she enjoys with co-workers she likes, she has her routines, and she has slowly re-established relationships with her family. But just as things were settling into place, Brian had come back to Arcadia, and she feels like her world is slightly off-balance again.

She startles when she feels a hand on her shoulder, coming to a complete and sudden stop, and very nearly colliding with Brian's lanky frame when she turns around. His arms reach out and catch her without any hesitation.

"Are you okay?" he asks with genuine concern in his voice. His warm hands gently cup her elbows, and an intense heat flushes through Margaret's entire body. She's embarrassed by her clumsiness and also very aware of Brian's proximity. Not only can she see his breath in the cold January air, she can feel its warmth on her cheek and smell the bold aroma of the French Roast he had been sampling just minutes ago. She quickly recovers her footing and fights off the shiver that unexpectedly strikes when she disentangles herself from Brian's steady arms and his warm hands fall away. Neither of them says anything as they pause to catch their breath, but the way Brian looks at her like he can't quite believe she's real causes Margaret to feel strangely hopeful.

"I, um . . . I wanted to apologize for what happened last November," he tells her. "I was just trying to help William in whatever way I could. But after meeting Henry and hearing the way he talked about your family and how he really wanted to get Langston Furniture back up and running again, I changed my mind. I should never have let things go as far as they did, but I didn't know how to stop what was happening. I didn't want to hurt your family. I mean, it wasn't easy to learn the truth about what really happened all those years ago, and I suppose some part of me will always be angry about it. But it was a long time ago, and we can't change the past. And your family's already been through enough. I'm sorry Henry had to find out the truth the way he did. I want you to know that."

The words come out in a rush, and he wishes he could have offered her a more eloquent apology. She takes a few seconds to let his words sink in, and though she appreciates what he'd said, somehow it is not enough.

"Is that all?" Margaret asks him, holding her chin at a somewhat defiant angle and somehow managing to keep her voice far steadier than she actually feels.

Her words almost cause his heart to plummet, but only almost. Because she hadn't asked the question in an angry or annoyed tone; instead, there is a hint of something else in both her voice and in the way she is looking at him. Her eyes are a startling mixture of watery blue and slate gray and sage green. And it dawns on him that he's seen this same look in her eyes before.

Suddenly, he's standing in the living room on that sunny November morning again, with Margaret looking up at him from her seat in front of the fireplace. At the time, he had been so preoccupied with how William was likely eavesdropping on their conversation from the study that he hadn't fully grasped everything that had been communicated in the split second when Margaret's eyes had fallen and a tight smile had flashed across her face. He had told her that his cousin would be coming back to the house at any moment and that he didn't want to be an impolite houseguest. And though he had said the words in the hopes of getting Margaret out of the house and away from a vengeance-obsessed William as quickly as possible, it didn't change the fact that he had lied to her. And it didn't change the fact that Margaret had known he was lying to her.

He hadn't realized the damage he'd done in that moment, but he's paying attention now. Margaret's eyes change colors with her moods, and he now knows what she had felt the last time they had seen each other: he hadn't only disappointed her – he'd hurt her. The realization knocks the wind out of him. The beautiful woman he hasn't been able to stop thinking about is standing just inches away from him, anxiously waiting for an answer. Looking at her now, Brian remembers what his mother had said to him at Thanksgiving: Maybe the reason why Margaret's so angry with you is because she liked you as much as you like her. Maybe she's just as heartbroken as you are.

He had apologized for his role in nearly pulling off a business deal made in bad faith, but that had been the only thing he'd apologized for. He replays her question in his mind, and the vulnerability in her voice and in her eyes is suddenly clear as day. She thinks that's the only reason I wanted to see her, he realizes, as a bone-chilling gust of wind cuts through the trees. Margaret takes her hands out of her pockets and pulls her coat tighter, and Brian notices the difference immediately: she's no longer wearing her wedding ring.

And he dares to hope.

He's trying to work out what to say to her, but his lack of response causes Margaret's shoulders to drop in defeat. She blinks her eyes rapidly and presses her lips together tightly in a gesture that Brian immediately commits to memory: she's deeply upset and trying to not to let it show. It's subtle, but he notices the way she shakes her head dejectedly as she begins to turn away from him, and he feels the panic rising in his chest and throat. He's down to his last strike, and as miserable as the past two months have been for him, what awaits him will be far worse if he doesn't swing for the fences now.

"I'm sorry I lied to you," he calls out.

She can't quite bring herself to look at his face, but the sound of his voice ringing out so clearly in the quiet park causes her to freeze in her tracks. He cautiously bridges the small distance between them, and Margaret can hear the sounds of his deep breaths, can almost feel the warmth radiating off him.

"I meant what I said at dinner that night: I want to know more about you, because I think you're interesting. And I felt that way even before I met you." He takes a deep breath before continuing. "I asked you out to dinner because I wanted to ask you out to dinner. That was never part of the plan. You were the one thing I never planned on," he says, his voice unwavering. "And you're the one thing about last November I wouldn't change."

She looks anywhere but at him, but he can see that she's shivering. He had left his coat back at the restaurant, but the frigid night air hardly even affects him. Getting Margaret out of the cold suddenly becomes his only concern.

"Look, you haven't had dinner. Just come back to the restaurant, okay? I won't pay for your meal if you don't want me to, and you don't have to talk to me if you don't want to. But you can ask me anything, and I won't lie to you," he tells her.

He pauses, and his mother's words come rushing back to him: Just be honest with her. And keep being honest with her. She deserves that much.

"I'm so sorry for hurting you. And I promise I'll never lie to you again, Margaret."

She had lived a life so defined by secrets and deceptions that the openness and sincerity in his promise – especially when he had said her name – overwhelms her nearly to the point of tears. She had never disliked her name, even if there were times when she felt there was something distant and formal-sounding about it. But her name had sounded almost hymn-like when Brian had said it tonight – with such breathless reverence, as if the entire weight of everything true and beautiful and good in the universe was contained within those two syllables.

Slowly, she raises her eyes to meet Brian's. He towers over her, but in the amber glow of the nearby lamp post, she can clearly see the same warmth and fascination in his eyes now that she had seen in them last fall.

"Will you have dinner with me?" he asks nervously. And in a voice barely above a whisper, he adds, "Please."

She studies his face for a moment, and she can't help thinking that there is a calmness to him now, as if he has finally gotten a good night's sleep. He looks younger and even more handsome than he did in November. The way he stands with his hands in his pockets and a hopeful smile on his full lips only adds to his already considerable charm. There is something boyish about him, and it reminds her of something – or perhaps of someone – from so many years ago. There are still lingering traces of doubt in Margaret's beautiful, blue eyes, but she accepts his invitation.

They walk side-by-side through the snowy park back to Twain's, and she can feel his eyes watching her the entire time. When they arrive at the restaurant, Brian holds the door open for her, and Margaret smiles at him – shyly, but brightly. He takes a deep breath, and the scent of her perfume calms the storms inside him. And he smiles too.

* * *

Though she's had his business card for well over a week and had memorized his phone number almost immediately, it's not until the next afternoon that Margaret finally dials his number for the first time. She and Brian had gradually eased into conversation over dinner last night. He'd told her about transferring to his company's St. Louis office and how he was working from home most days, and she'd mentioned her job at the library. They had kept the conversation light and had paid for their meals separately, but neither of them had seemed particularly anxious to leave the restaurant right away. So they had lingered in the corner booth for one last cup of coffee. As she stirred a packet of brown sugar into her coffee, she could feel Brian staring at her. Her first instinct had been to put her defenses up, but when she looked up, she'd been greeted by Brian's soft smile and the words, "Your hair's shorter than I remember." His words had certainly caught her by surprise, and her eyes had darted away as she self-consciously tucked a lock of her hair behind her ear. She had cut her hair just before the start of the new year, and though she hadn't done anything drastic, at collarbone-length it's the shortest her hair's ever been. That Brian had noticed such a seemingly minor detail both flattered and bewildered her. And those dueling feelings had only grown stronger when he'd quickly added, "Oh no, I didn't mean for that to sound like a criticism. It looks beautiful. You always look . . ." He had smiled sheepishly, but that small moment had gone a long way in winning her over. He knew she was no longer living at the Langston house and that he still had a long way to go when it came to gaining Margaret's trust, but he had still offered to drive her home at the evening. She had politely declined, of course, and they'd said good night in front of Twain's, with him telling her that she could call him any time and that he hoped to see her again.

She goes about her usual Sunday routines, trying to distract her mind from daydreaming about Brian and his warm smiles. By early afternoon, she finds herself nervously pacing the living room as she dials his number to ask him whether his offer from last fall to head into town and have coffee together still stands. And she can practically hear the smile in his voice when he asks her, "Where and when?"

She walks into Common Grounds for the first time that Sunday afternoon. And in a scene that becomes familiar as they continue to meet and as the small coffee shop near the library quickly becomes one of their favorite places in Arcadia, Brian is already sitting at a small table by the window and waiting with a smile. For the first couple of weeks, she enjoys sampling the extensive selection of teas and coffees on the menu and is more than happy to let Brian do most of the talking. She's impressed when she finds out that Brian had attended Stanford University for college and business school, but perhaps even more impressed by how modest he is when it comes to discussing his accomplishments. "Growing up, all I wanted to do was play basketball and attend the Air Force Academy one day. I wanted to be a pilot like my uncle. But that just wasn't in the cards," he says, pointing at his glasses.

Initially, it's the differences between them that intrigue her: she had been an only child, whereas Brian is the youngest of three sons; she had grown up in a small town in a landlocked state, whereas Brian had always lived close to the Pacific Ocean. She had never had the chance to travel anywhere, had never set foot outside Arcadia, but she travels to the beaches of Bainbridge Island, the quadrangles of Stanford University, and the amusement rides of Santa Monica through Brian's memories and the photos he shows her on his phone. She tells him that Arcadia must seem extremely boring by comparison, but his response brings a blush to her cheeks. "It certainly has its charms," he says, with a smile that manages to be flirtatious and sincere at the same time and with his eyes lingering on her face.

It had begun casually and always on Margaret's schedule - coffee at Common Grounds on her way into work, a casual meal at the bar at Twain's on her lunch break. She doesn't know whether to find it comforting or alarming just how seamlessly their lives seem to fit together. Sometimes, she catches herself looking at Brian and wondering if he is actually rearranging his schedule so that he never misses an opportunity to see her. And that thought excites and scares her at the same time.

But something changes between them the next month, or perhaps it's something inside Margaret that changes when she watches Brian interacting with Jacob. In early February, the library hosts a children's workshop, and Jacob and Jenny come by after school to make Valentine's Day cards. Margaret is absolutely delighted to see her grandson and his friend and is showing them how to make pressed flowers when Brian walks into the library. Just as Brian finishes asking her if she'd like to go out for coffee later tonight, Jacob walks over to where they're standing together. He surprises them both by saying hello to Brian and asking if Brian would like to make Valentine's Day cards with them. He looks at Margaret, silently seeking her approval, and Margaret gives Brian a shy smile, telling him that they'd be delighted if he could join them. And Jacob surprises them again by grabbing them each by the hand and excitedly leading them over to the arts and crafts table. Margaret sits with Jenny and helps her with the cards she's making for Maggie and Lucille, but her eyes drift across the small table to Jacob and Brian on multiple occasions. The two of them get along remarkably well, and the smile never leaves Brian's face as he answers any question Jacob asks him and listens to him talking enthusiastically about his Little League team. When it's time for the children to go home, the four of them walk out of the library together. She and Brian stand together, watching Jacob and Jenny climbing on one of the sculptures in front of the library.

"He's quite a special boy," Brian says, and he loves the way her eyes sparkle and the way she smiles at any mention of Jacob.

"He is. He's perfect," she says.

"He reminds me of his grandmother in that regard," he replies, smiling in that flirtatious, yet sincere way of his.

She looks at him - all soft eyes and soft smiles - and is genuinely touched by what he's said. "Thank you, Brian. I think that may be the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me."

The children come running back over to where she and Brian are standing. Jacob reminds Brian that his team will start their season next month, and Brian promises that he'll come to every game he can. He tells Margaret that he'll see her later tonight and waves goodbye to Jacob and Jenny.

"He seems different from last fall, like he's not angry anymore," Jacob says. "I like him. He knows a lot about baseball, and he has a really cool truck."

Margaret smiles at that and kneels down to give Jacob a hug. "My special boy," she whispers into his messy brown hair, as Lucille arrives to pick up the children. She looks up at Jacob and Jenny and tells them both how much she enjoyed spending time with them this afternoon. Jacob grins widely before pressing a warm kiss to her cheek and says, "I had a great time too. I'll tell dad you said hello. Good night, Grandma. I love you!"

She arrives at the coffee shop before Brian does and as she waits at the table she has begun to think of as "their" table, she realizes just how much she's looking forward to seeing him. Suddenly, anything that happens in her life, no matter how mundane, becomes something she wants to tell Brian about - whether it's about something as wonderful as the latest drawing Jacob had made for her or as uninteresting as how she needs to go grocery shopping after work. His attentiveness still continues to both flatter and bewilder her. She smiles more now, not only when she's with him, but also whenever the thought of him crosses her mind - something that has been happening with alarming frequency as of late. Brian's the most hassle-free person she's ever met, and as selfish as it makes her feel sometimes, it feels nice to begin her day with someone who always looks genuinely happy to see her. But tonight is the first time that she's made time in her schedule to see him, and she can't keep herself from smiling at the thought of beginning and ending her day with him. There's a soft tapping at the window, and she turns to see Brian standing outside, smiling at her like he's been looking forward to seeing her all day. She smiles and touches her fingertips to the glass. And for a brief second, it's as if the barrier between them no longer exists, as if she can actually feel his fingers lightly dancing with hers.

Though she had long since given up trying to deny her attraction towards him, she's continually surprised by her ever-deepening feelings for Brian. The next week, Brian has to go out of town on business, and just the thought of not seeing him for three days throws her into a state of near melancholy. They meet for an early lunch at Twain's before he leaves for the airport, and Margaret finds herself staring at the clock, hoping against hope that time would stand still. He hasn't even left yet, and somehow she already misses him. He walks with her back to the library after lunch, and when he tentatively reaches for her hand, she doesn't pull away. They're both dreading the idea of not seeing each other tomorrow and neither of them wants to say the word "goodbye". So instead, they opt for "Safe travels, Brian" and "See you soon, Margaret." He calls her every night after dinner while he's away, and listening to his voice as she curls up on the couch tides her over to the weekend.

When she walks into the library on Saturday morning, Alex and Robin are whispering conspiratorially at the information desk. She says hello and comments on the lovely vase of tulips sitting at the far end of the desk, which causes Robin to giggle.

"Well, I'm sure a certain Mr. Brian Addison will be very pleased to hear that, considering he certainly picked the right flowers for you," Alex chimes in, handing her the card that had been included with the flower delivery. Margaret takes the card from Alex, her expression a mix of both embarrassment and confusion. "They're variegated tulips," Alex explains. "The type of flowers you give someone when you want to tell them that they have beautiful eyes. Pretty good choice if you're about to ask a woman for a date."

In a dreamlike state, Margaret walks to the end of the desk and looks at the flowers in greater detail. She reads Brian's card, and though a simple message wishing her a Happy Valentine's Day might not seem like much to anyone else, she sniffles softly as she slips it into the breast pocket of her coat. It's the first time anyone's ever given her flowers for Valentine's Day.

And sure enough, Brian has just returned from his business trip and is waiting for her outside the library when she leaves work that afternoon. He lets out a sigh when he sees her, the smile on her face telling him that she had gotten the flowers and that maybe she's missed him as much as he's missed her.

"Happy Valentine's Day," he says softly. She smiles the way she did when they'd first met, and it's love at first sight all over again for him. She thanks him for the flowers, and he can see the deep appreciation, but also the vulnerability in her eyes. He smiles warmly and asks if she has any plans for this evening, and when she shakes her head, he grabs a bright yellow blanket from the back of his truck and shyly offers her his arm.

They walk into the park, and Margaret's face breaks into a smile when they arrive at the outdoor ice rink. They head up to the bleachers, and Brian gently drapes the yellow blanket around her shoulders before sitting down next to her. For the next few minutes, they sit in silence and watch all the people skating under the canopy of string lights. He steals a glance at Margaret every now and then, and he's curious what she's thinking about when he sees the slightly forlorn smile on her lips as she watches a young couple skating hand-in-hand.

"Are you okay?" he asks gently.

She studies his face for the longest time. He's the first man who's ever shown any interest in her. The Japanese had bombed Pearl Harbor when she was fourteen, and almost all the boys in Arcadia had enlisted and gone overseas. And Margaret's heart had gone with one boy in particular. She had been a few months shy of her eighteenth birthday when her dad and her future father-in-law had decided she would marry Warren. There had been no romance leading up to the wedding, and there had certainly been no romance for the next three decades. After Warren died, releasing her from their unhappy marriage, she had been in no rush to be anyone's wife again and was more than happy to embrace her reputation as the formidable Langston matriarch if it meant she'd be able to live her life on her own terms. Suddenly, there is something she wants to ask Brian, though she's not quite sure how she wants him to answer. "Have you ever been married before?"

He's taken aback by her question, and though it's a topic he'd rather not discuss, he'd promised that he'd always be honest with her. "Yeah, I have. A long time ago," he answers.

"What happened?"

"The timing was off. Julia and I met in business school. We were in a lot of the same classes, had a lot of the same friends. But we were dating other people, and we were never both single at the same time. After graduation, we ended up working for different companies, but in the same office building. Things happened really fast for us. We got married, and I thought we had the perfect life: great apartment, high-paying jobs, active social life. I was so happy with the way things were going that I didn't realize how unhappy she was. And maybe she didn't say anything because she saw that I was so happy. We were so young, and I thought we had all the time in the world. It wasn't that I didn't want to have the kids and the dog and the big house in the suburbs some day - I just didn't want those things at the same time that she wanted them. Even though I loved her, I didn't love her enough to give up my career or my perfect life in the city. It was just sad, really - realizing that I didn't miss my wife when I was away on business and that she wasn't always the first person I wanted to call any time I had news to share. We fell in love quickly, and then we fell out of love just as fast. We both just knew that it was over," he says, running a hand through his hair.

He turns to look at her, but she's staring straight ahead with a worried look on her face and her hands clasped together tightly in her lap. She knows that if she had been able to marry the boy she'd wanted or if Brian's marriage to Julia hadn't ended, the two of them wouldn't be sitting here together right now. She knows she's getting ahead of herself, but she's enjoyed how attentive he's been. She knows it's only natural that his fascination will fade with time, but she doesn't want it to. Warren had been indifferent towards her from the beginning, but the idea that Brian might one day feel something similar to indifference towards her leaves her feeling on edge. And while she likes that he's so committed to his career, she never wants to find herself in competition with it for Brian's attention.

He gently places a hand on top of hers and the tension slowly melts away. Maybe it's too soon to be telling her this, but he tells her anyway. "New York felt so different this past week. Maybe it was the cold, cloudy days or how so many of my favorite places have gone out of business. But the entire time, I just couldn't wait to get home and to see you again."

She's touched by what he's said, and though she's not bold enough to tell him that she had missed him too, she smiles and says, "It's good to see you too."

It's certainly not the type of Valentine's Day dinner he ever thought he'd be eating at this age, but the cheap fast food and hot chocolate from the small concession stand are the best meal he's had in days, because he's sharing them with Margaret. Looking around at all the other people in the park that night, he notices that he and Margaret are older than all the other couples. But he feels as energetic and as hopeful tonight as he did in college, as if the possibilities are all before him. They walk back to the library, and though she lives within walking distance, tonight is the first time she accepts his offer to drive her home, slowly letting him into more of her life. He helps her out of the truck and holds onto her hand as he walks her to the front door of her building.

"You know what else I was thinking about while I was in New York?" he asks. "I know you've never been to Seattle, and maybe it's because I haven't had seafood since I moved to Arcadia, but I was thinking that maybe I could bring Seattle here to you. I'd really like to invite you over to the house for dinner sometime."

It's the most romantic thing anyone has ever offered to do for her, and she accepts his invitation immediately.

* * *

Brian's preparing dinner in the kitchen on Saturday evening when the doorbell rings. He takes a deep breath, pushing away the unpleasant memory of how things had played out the last time he had opened his front door to find Margaret standing on his front porch. He tells himself that this time will be different.

When he opens the door, Margaret greets him with the most captivating smile, leaving him both speechless and breathless. Her hair is pulled back in a simple and elegant French twist, which only enhances her incredible eyes and cheekbones. And it also draws Brian's attention lower, to the long and irresistible column of her neck. He's so enthralled by the intoxicating scent of her perfume that he almost doesn't register that Margaret is handing him two bottles of wine, saying she wasn't sure what he had prepared for dinner so she had brought both chardonnay and merlot. He recovers his wits as her hand brushes against his, and he sets the bottles down on the foyer table before asking her if he can take her coat. She stands with her back to him, and as he watches her untying the sash of her coat, an intense jolt of desire shoots straight through him. His hands itch to touch her and move of their own accord. He hesitates when his hands land on her shoulders, worried that she might find his touch presumptuous. But he doesn't pull his hands away. And Margaret doesn't pull away either. He slowly slips the coat off her shoulders, and his breath catches in his throat when his fingertips make contact with the silk material of her figure-hugging, navy blue dress.

As Brian hangs up her coat, Margaret takes a moment to regain her composure, trying not to shiver from the sensual feeling of Brian's hands slowly sliding down her arms that has just been imprinted onto her skin. Earlier this evening, when Alex had come downstairs to drive her over to Brian's house, she had dismissed Alex's wolf-whistle and her comment that "That Mr. Addison is one lucky son of a gun" as nothing more than Alex being her usual good-humored self. She had rolled her eyes in mock annoyance, secretly hoping that it wouldn't be obvious to anyone that she'd spent the greater part of the afternoon nervously fretting over what to do with her hair and which dress to wear. She supposes she should feel ashamed of her vanity, but she can't prevent herself from smiling when she sees how Brian can't seem to keep his eyes, or his hands, off her this evening. He gathers the two wine bottles in one hand, and she nearly jumps when Brian's other hand lightly touches her elbow before sliding to her lower back to guide her towards the kitchen. It feels as if every inch of her body is tingling, and she shyly tucks a loose tendril of her hair behind her ear as she walks beside him.

When they walk into the kitchen, he goes to place the bottle of chardonnay in the wine cooler, and she nervously peruses the handful of gardening books neatly stacked at the end of the dining table. He sets the timer on the oven, telling her, "Dinner won't be ready for a few more minutes. Come on, there's something I'd like to show you." He places his hand on her lower back again and leads her through the French doors just off the dining area.

She wraps her arms around herself as she steps onto the patio deck and into the unseasonably cold March evening. The backyard is a large and beautiful space, and she imagines it will be even more beautiful when the springtime temperatures finally arrive. She smiles softly as she listens to Brian enthusiastically describing his plans to transform the backyard into something really special: hanging a hammock across the two perfectly spaced oak trees in the far corner of the yard, planting a row of cherry blossom trees because they remind him of his hometown, where he'd like to put the fire pit, how eager he is to have the deck refinished and a new grill in place in time for outdoor barbeques this summer.

She can't quite identify the feeling – an indescribable mixture of profound contentment tinged with both sadness and longing – that forms in her chest when Brian turns around and smiles at her. He's so different from Warren, she thinks to herself, so unrelenting in his hopefulness and his gentleness. She had never realized just how much she wanted and needed those two things in her life until she met Brian. Her life had been such a difficult and lonely one, and somewhere along the way she had stopped believing that she deserved to have anything good happen to her. But then she had gone against the rules last fall when she accepted an invitation to dinner from a tall, handsome stranger. She had briefly allowed herself to believe that something had sparked between the two of them and had been utterly devastated when she discovered what she had thought was the real reason for his interest. And though she had told Brian to stay away from the Langstons, when Henry informed her that Brian had backed out of the deal, she hadn't known how to take the news: What did it mean if Brian was willing to put her wants above his own? Why did Brian's eagerness to have the Langstons out of his life upset her so much? She had felt so humiliated and hurt when she had mistakenly assumed his interest in her was "strictly business", quickly pushing him away in order to protect herself. And she had been ready to push him away again two months ago. But he had changed her mind by apologizing, not only for his dishonesty but for its hurtful effects on her. Looking at Brian now, she thinks of all the wonderful moments that have happened since he'd come back into her life. And it astounds her just how many of those moments have happened because of him and with him.

Her warm thoughts almost make her forget all about the chill in the air, and the sight of Brian walking over to where she's standing only warms her more. She's flattered when he offers her his sports coat, and she can't deny how much she enjoys being enveloped in both his warmth and in the scent of his cologne. There is something dark and exhilarating about the way Brian's eyes drink in the sight of her wearing something of his, and she finds herself smiling in silent approval as her eyes rake over his torso. He breaks the tension by clearing his throat and saying, "This is actually the first time I've ever lived somewhere with a yard to take care of, so I'm completely clueless when it comes to gardening. I'd love to hear any thoughts or suggestions you're willing to share." He offers her his arm, and they take a leisurely stroll around the backyard, with Brian listening in rapt attention as Margaret shows him which plants would work best in which areas.

"I've always loved daisies and gardenias," she tells him when they return to the patio deck, and she can tell by the way he smiles at her that he's committing that little detail to memory. She tries her best to keep her expression neutral as she adds, "And you know, you really can't go wrong with some variegated tulips."

He chuckles at that, loving the way her teasing tone makes her voice sound even more songlike and the way her mischievous smile slowly forms on her kissable lips. The sight of her eyes – almost the same dark shade of blue as her very alluring dress – glittering against the backdrop of a pink sky at twilight takes his breath away. He's just about to tell her how absolutely beautiful she looks when the oven timer goes off in the kitchen. They exchange shy smiles, and he sighs inwardly as the two of them walk back into the house.

He has always liked the kitchen of this house, and the space is made even more beautiful with a beautiful woman in it. Everything feels comfortable and familiar from the moment they share their first glass of wine at the island. The way Margaret gazes at him as he tells her a little about each dish he's prepared for their dinner – Dungeness crab cakes, Alaskan halibut, asparagus and chanterelle risotto, and macadamia nut bread pudding – makes him beam with pride. He had wanted to impress her, and the sparkle in her eyes tells him that he just might have succeeded.

Dinner goes off without a hitch. The wine and conversation flow easily to the sounds of West Coast jazz playing on the stereo. There is hardly a moment that evening when Margaret's face is not glowing with a smile, and she enjoys listening to Brian's cheerful voice telling her about some of his favorite memories of the West Coast and about the latest project he's landed that will take him out to the Ozark Mountains in the upcoming months.

After dessert, she offers to help him with the dishes, and while he had been planning to simply throw everything into the dishwasher at the end of the night, the temptation to prolong his evening with her easily wins out. His eyes follow Margaret as she gets up from the dining table, and he's hypnotized by the graceful sway of her dress as she makes her way over to the sink. He loves that he can smell her perfume on his clothes, and the house suddenly feels like something more with her in it. As he walks towards her, he's equal parts frustrated and relieved that he's carrying their plates and wine glasses, as it prevents his hands from doing what he wants to do most: encircle her slender waist, kiss his way up the side of her neck, and nibble at the delicate skin just behind her right earlobe.

Their hands and arms occasionally brush against each other's as they work in a companionable silence, with her washing the dishes and handing them off to him to be rinsed and placed on the drying rack. As she hands him the last wine glass, a lock of her hair comes loose and falls into her eyes. Without a second thought, Brian reaches for the dish towel to dry off his hands and gently tuck her hair behind her ear, and she tenses when she feels his index finger lightly tracing the shell of her ear.

Slowly, she turns to meet his gaze, and the way he towers over her and the look in his eyes set her heart racing. No one has ever looked at her like that, with such intensity and so unapologetically full of fascination and desire. Her eyes dart away, and she feels like such a coward as she takes a step backward.

She chews her bottom lip nervously as she watches him rinse off the glass, shut off the water, and dry off his hands. Then, he surprises her by gently pulling her hands towards him by her wrists. He holds her hands between his own and dries off her hands for her, and the thin material of the dish towel is the only thing separating his warm skin from hers. The languid rhythm of his movements causes every inch of her body to ignite – whether from desire or the wine or the penetrating heat of Brian's eyes on her she does not know – and she has never felt so uncertain about what to do next.

He whispers her name, and the low timbre of his voice is simply too much for her.

"It's getting late," she says hurriedly, unable to look at him as she pulls her hands away.

If Brian is disappointed, he doesn't show it. Instead, he simply nods in agreement and offers to drive her home.

Neither of them speaks during the drive to her apartment building, only occasionally stealing little glances at each other. At her building, Brian puts the truck in park and they sit quietly for a few seconds before he asks her, "Will I see you again?"

There is a clear-cut nervousness to his voice, and she smiles softly, letting him know that his touches tonight were not entirely unwelcome as she replies with a nod. She's turning to exit the Silverado when he slips his hand under hers and lifts her hand to his lips. His kiss is feather-light and yet remarkably warm.

"Good night, Margaret," he says, and her heart flutters at the velvety quality of his lips and of his voice when he had whispered her name.

She lies in bed later that evening, absentmindedly twirling a lock of hair between her fingers as she looks at the vase of variegated tulips Brian had given her for Valentine's Day. The tulips are now in full bloom, and a dreamy smile forms on her lips when she thinks about how the flowers are not the only things that have blossomed with the changing seasons. It feels as if a chemical change has occurred between her and Brian, and the realization leaves her feeling deeply panicked and deeply calm at the same time. It is a few minutes into Sunday when she whispers, "Good night, Brian" into the darkness, and the two syllables that make up his name sound as soothing as those of a steady heartbeat. Brian's soft kiss is warm on her skin, and as she drifts into a night of dreaming about him, she can still hear Etta James singing about finding a Sunday kind of love.

* * *

When Margaret arrives at the baseball field on the first Thursday evening in April, the sight that greets her is one that causes her heart to swell immensely. She takes a seat in the middle row of the bleachers and watches Brian's interactions with her grandson during batting practice. Over the past two months, she has come to recognize the way Brian's eyes narrow slightly when the wheels in his head are turning and his attention becomes fully focused on the task at hand. She had kept the observation to herself, secretly enjoying those moments when she would look up from her book to steal a glance at him sitting across from her, handsome as ever with his glasses on and occasionally spinning his pen around his thumb as he pores over the business section of the newspaper or a geotechnical report from his latest construction project.

Jacob struggles with his swings, and she can see that Brian notices it too. But Brian is not the type of person to go around offering unsolicited advice; rather, he continues his quiet observations until Jacob eventually turns to him and asks for help on how he can improve his hitting. A smile tugs at her lips as she watches Brian – who is an unending well of patience – showing Jacob how to keep his shoulders square and how to plant his front foot at the correct angle towards the plate. Even from this distance, she can see the smile on Jacob's face and that her nine-year-old grandson appreciates how Brian, similar to Margaret, doesn't talk to him like he's a child.

For the next few minutes, she loses herself in her thoughts. She can see how much Brian cares about Jacob, and she suspects a great deal of his concern has to do with her: Jacob is one of the most important things in Margaret's life, and that fact alone makes him unequivocally important to Brian. To know that Brian could love someone she loves – and love them deeply and for her sake – only endears him to her even more.

To this day, she is deeply grateful that her perfect grandson had never met his grandfather. Jacob's life had ended far too soon, but at least his life had never been tarnished by Warren's disappointing presence. Though she feels no guilt whatsoever in admitting she had never loved Warren, it feels almost traitorous to know that she would have wanted Jacob to know his grandfather – if only that grandfather had been someone else. For decades, she had wished that the "someone else" had been the other Langston son. But now, watching the way Brian and Jacob get along so well with each other, Margaret can't help but wish that Jacob had had someone like Brian to encourage him and to teach him how to track pitches. But, more importantly, she wishes her perfect grandson had had someone like Brian looking out for him after she had passed away. If only I'd been free to choose who his grandfather was, she thinks with regret, maybe Jacob would be running the factory and have a nine-year-old son of his own. Maybe then things would have worked out the way they should have.

When it's time for the game to begin, she hears Brian's genuinely cheerful voice telling Jacob, "Don't forget to have the time of your life out there!" as he heads up to the bleachers to find her. True to form, Brian's eyes find Margaret instantly, and he smiles at her like he's been looking forward to seeing her all day. And it's just one more thing about him that causes her to experience the sensation of butterflies in her stomach.

The game is tied as they head into the bottom of the sixth and final inning. With two outs and nobody on base, it's Jacob's turn to make his way to the batter's box. His brown eyes nervously scan the crowd, and when his eyes land on Margaret and Brian sitting together, Brian gives him a thumbs up and an encouraging smile. And somehow Jacob seems to understand everything Brian's trying to tell him: the game is tied, there's no pressure on Jacob to be a hero, so just go out there and have fun. Margaret watches the way her grandson smiles and nods confidently at Brian, and her feelings for the handsome gentleman sitting next to her only intensify. She looks at Brian, her eyes lingering on his handsome face for several seconds. When Brian reaches over and gives her hand a gentle squeeze, she surprises them both by holding onto his hand, keeping him close. The smile that slowly brightens his handsome face makes her feel like a hopeful, glowing girl of fourteen again. Blushing lightly, she shyly tucks a strand of her dark hair behind her ear as she turns her attention back to the game.

The pitch seems to happen in slow motion and the entire park is so quiet you could hear a pin drop. But then, the ping of the aluminum bat connecting with the ball rings out, and everyone in the bleachers leaps to their feet. The ball sails over the left field wall and Jacob takes off running, rounding the bases with the most gleeful expression on his face. As he makes his way back to home plate, he looks up to the bleachers and gives Margaret a huge smile. She is beaming with pride, her eyes brimming with tears of pure joy as she watches her grandson being lifted into the air and carried off the field by his rowdy teammates when he reaches home plate.

And amidst all the excited cheers and high fives, Brian can only stare at Margaret. They are still holding hands, and Brian finds himself mesmerized to the point of speechlessness as he listens to the way she laughs – effervescently and without abandon. When Margaret turns and looks at him, very nearly throwing her arms around him in her exuberance, everything else seems to fade into the background. The roar of the cheering crowd becomes nothing more than a low hum, and time seems to slow until it comes to a complete standstill. The smile on her perfect mouth and the gleam in those incredible blue eyes are even more breathtaking in the golden light of the setting sun. Every time he looks at her, it's as if a tidal wave has crashed into him, and this time is no exception. But Margaret has also never looked more beautiful to him than she does in this moment. And suddenly, Brian is not completely certain whether he is awake or if he has stumbled into a waking dream.

But eventually the spell is broken by the slight jostling from the other spectators in the crowd as they exit the bleachers. Margaret's expression grows wistful, and Brian slowly exhales as he feels the moment passing them by. He gives her a shy smile as he continues to look only at her, even though he wants nothing more than to tangle his fingers in her silken hair and kiss her breathless. He follows the path of her eyes to where her hand still rests inside his, and he anxiously waits to see if she will pull her hand away. But instead he's pleasantly surprised when she gives him a coy smile and they make the decision to shift their hands simultaneously, allowing their fingers to interlace. He carefully guides her down the bleacher steps and walks her home, hand-in-hand and with his heart rate slightly elevated the entire way.

* * *

They stop by the coffee shop on the way back to her building, and Brian can't help but smile at how he has come to think of Common Grounds as "their" coffee shop. Margaret lets go of his hand as they approach the entrance, and he tries not to feel too discouraged about that, reminding himself that she is from another time and that her reluctance to engage in any public display of affection doesn't necessarily have anything to do with him. This is new territory for both of them, but he stands a little closer to her this evening as they wait in line.

The coffee shop is surprisingly busy for a Thursday night, and he's just about to comment on that fact when Robin makes her way through the crowd and greets them in a cheerful voice.

"I didn't expect to see you here tonight! They're just about to go on," she tells them, gesturing to the concert stage out back where Alex's band is setting up for their set.

They follow Robin outside and stay for a few songs. When the first inevitable slow song of the evening starts up, Brian feels as nervous as a high school senior who's about to ask the prettiest girl in school to be his date to the prom. He watches the colorful stage lights dancing in Margaret's hair and wonders if she's waiting for him to ask her to dance. As much as he'd like to slip his hands around her slender waist and hold her close as they slow dance under the bright lights, he notices the wistful smile on Margaret's face as she watches all the young couples dancing around them. And Brian is happy just to stand there watching her as he listens to the lyrics. It's a song he has heard before and has always liked; now he knows he will forever associate this song with the way he feels tonight.

They say goodnight to Robin when the song finishes and make their way back through the park. He reaches for her hand as they enter the park, and she can feel the electricity crackling in the air between them as their fingers intertwine and their palms meet.

When they reach her building, instead of saying good night to him on the front steps, she leads him through the lobby and into the central courtyard. It's as if he has been transported into some secret hideaway. There is a small fountain in the center of the courtyard and star-shaped lights hanging from the magnolia trees. They sit together on the loveseat in front of the fire bowl, and Brian leans back to look up at the night sky. The moon is full and there are hundreds of visibly twinkling stars. There is a feeling of expectation and romance in the air, and it mixes beautifully with the fragrance of the newly-flowering magnolias above them. He feels deeply panicked and deeply calm at the same time. And unbelievably happy.

When Margaret turns and looks at him, her eyes are the darkest he's ever seen them and sparkling brilliantly in the firelight. And she takes his breath away. He moves in closer, his warm brown eyes full of wonder and wanting. He slowly tucks a lock of her hair behind her ear, and a faint blush colors those incredible cheekbones when she feels him tracing the shell of her ear, just like he had after their dinner last weekend.

"My God, you're beautiful," he says breathlessly. "Don't you know that?"

The way she looks up at him in slight disbelief lets him know it's the first time anyone has ever told her that.

"And I'm . . . I'm dazzled by you, Margaret."

Her eyes linger on his lips as he whispers her name, and his fingers slide into her hair. Suddenly, there is only one thing she wants, and he eagerly grants her wish. He kisses her, and his lips are warm and gentle. He feels the small tremble in her lips, feels the way she hesitates for a brief moment before she closes her eyes and presses her lips back against his. His other hand gently slides up her long neck to cup her flushed cheek as he continues to kiss her. He can taste the pleasant spiciness of house blend coffee and just the faintest hint of brown sugar on her soft lips. Her hands slide up his chest, and she curls her fingers into the lapels of his jacket to pull him closer. Their kiss deepens and her long eyelashes flutter against his as they breathe each other in.

He rests his forehead against hers afterward, and her heart swells at the sound of his soft laugh. "I've wanted to do that since the first moment I saw you," he confesses, sending a shiver through her.

They walk back inside, and at the foot of the staircase, Brian holds her hands in his as he presses a warm kiss to her cheek.

"Good night, Margaret. See you tomorrow?" he asks. His voice is so lovely and hopeful, but her emotions are in such disarray that she can only nod in response.

She doesn't sleep that night. Staring out her bedroom window all night, she can still taste Brian's kiss on her lips. That his kisses had been as perfect as he is doesn't surprise her. And somehow that fact only makes her feel worse and fills her with a deep sense of dread.

The day breaks exceedingly cold and gray, a grim portent of the cataclysm that awaits.

* * *

The memory of their kiss is still fresh on his lips and he feels as over the moon as he had last night when he walks into the coffee shop the next morning. He takes a seat at the small table by the window and leafs through the newspaper as he waits for her.

But Margaret doesn't show.

He checks his phone, but there are no missed calls or text messages from her. It's already eight o'clock, and he knows that Margaret is not the type to show up late for work. He also knows that he has a meeting with a new client that is scheduled to begin in half an hour.

As distracted as he is, he somehow manages to get through the meeting without any problems. He goes back to the house and tries to get some work done, but he mostly finds himself staring at his phone like some nervous teenager. He prepares lunch in the kitchen, grateful for the temporary distraction, but his meal remains largely untouched hours later. All sorts of questions begin to race through his mind: were things moving too quickly for her? Had she not enjoyed the kiss? Did she not feel the same way about him?

By three o'clock, he is practically climbing the walls and finds himself driving over to the library. He pulls into the library parking lot just as Margaret is exiting the building, and the apprehensive look on her face when she sees him makes him question whether he may have made a serious misstep.

"We have to talk," she says flatly, and her tone is eerily similar to the one she had used on that awful morning last November.

He puts the truck in park when they reach a small clearing in the woods on the outskirts of Arcadia and follows Margaret down to a wooden dock that leads onto a quiet lake. He walks to the end of the dock and smiles as he takes in the sight of the still waters and the rolling hills. He turns around to tell her what a beautiful place this is, but the look on Margaret's face causes his smile to vanish. Her eyes are watery and she looks so small and scared. He walks towards her, reaching for her hand and to ask her what's wrong. But she takes a step back and away from him.

"Brian, this isn't going to work," she says quickly, her voice quivering.

He freezes in his tracks, feeling as if the earth has suddenly opened up beneath him.

She presses her lips together tightly, taking a deep breath before the truths come pouring out.

"There's so much you don't know about me, Brian . . . and it's all bad.

You know that your grandfather and the others didn't die in a trucking accident, but what you don't know about is everything that happened after. Two of the men returned. Edward Langston called them demons and ordered that they be found and executed. He ruled with an iron fist, and his men were loyal. And as the head foreman, it fell upon my dad to lead the charge. So we hunted those men down and killed them again. And again. And again. And if your grandfather had come back, we would have hunted him down and killed him too.

Then, a few months before I turned eighteen, Edward Langston decided to reward my dad for his loyalty by promising him that his only child would have a better life – by marrying into the Langstons. I didn't want to marry Warren. He was so much older than me and he was a drunk. And I knew we'd never love each other. I wanted to finish high school and go to college and have the freedom to live a simple life somewhere far away from Arcadia. But Edward Langston needed a grandson, and I had to protect my dad; he was the only family I ever had. So I became a Langston and did whatever was necessary to keep the truth covered up and to protect Henry's and later Jacob's birthright."

She pauses for a moment, steeling herself for what else she needs to tell him.

"Henry was furious when he found out just how many things I had kept from him. But it gets worse.

When I was ten, I learned how to make the Returned disappear for good. And last fall, I put that knowledge to good use when I made Barbara Langston disappear. She was Fred's wife, and she drowned in the same accident that took Jacob's life. For decades, everyone in Arcadia has believed that she died trying to save Jacob, but it was actually Jacob who was trying to save her. The reason Barbara was down at the river that day was because she was planning to meet up with her lover and to leave Arcadia with Maggie. I had never liked Barbara, never wanted her for a daughter-in-law. But finding out that she was cheating on my son and that she had planned to take my granddaughter away and that she had been responsible for my grandson's death - it was unforgivable. So I decided to get rid of her once and for all. I met up with her in the park late one night and honed in on her guilt, telling her that Jacob's death and the downfall of the Langstons were all her fault. I told her that no one really wanted her back and that everyone was better off without her. I destroyed her will to live, and she let go."

"Why are you telling me all this?" he asks. There is neither anger nor accusation in his voice, but the anguish is undeniable.

Seeing the mirth disappear from his eyes – and knowing that she's the cause of it – makes her feel as if a part of her is slowly dying. She had thought her heart was impervious to everything, but there are still parts of her that are tender and vulnerable. And Brian had found them all. She doesn't know whether to be grateful to him or to lash out at him. She had opened her heart to this man, something which in the past had only ever led to her heart being broken. She had fallen in love with Ben when she was fourteen and had spent the next four decades pining for him. She had tried to open her heart to Warren after the birth of their sons, only to be met with his continued indifference.

No one has ever looked at her or made her feel like she was worth winning the way Brian does. No one ever saw _her_. But for reasons she cannot begin to comprehend, she's not invisible to Brian - he sees her, and she's the only one he sees. The way Brian had kissed her last night, so full of tenderness and longing, was more intimate than anything she had ever experienced in nearly three decades of marriage to Warren. She's standing at the edge of the Rubicon, painfully aware that everything they've shared up to this point is about to change. To know that the way he looks at her may be irreparably changed and that the perfect kiss they had shared under the stars last night might soon be nothing but a bittersweet memory, rather than a prelude to something more, is heart-rending.

"You promised you'd never lie to me, and I don't want to lie to you either. But I've been deceiving you the whole time. The woman you saw in those photographs doesn't exist anymore, Brian. She died a slow and painful death from ovarian cancer over three decades ago. She's nothing more than ashes locked away in a mausoleum. And the woman you had dinner with back in November . . . she's gone too. You're looking at nothing more than a cheap imitation," she tells him as he looks at her in complete shock.

"After Henry found out the truth about the fire and about Barbara, he threw me out of the house. I ended up at a government facility for the Returned, and while I was there, a man named Preacher James came to see me. I don't know how it's possible, but he can bring the dead back to life. He said he'd get us all out of the facility on one condition: if I told him everything I knew about how to make the Returned disappear. When I refused to help him, he warned me that he had the freedom to walk out of the facility and that he would harm my family until I gave him what he wanted. I never had any intention of helping him, but I had to protect Jacob. So I drank the poison the preacher had brought with him. I died again, and then the preacher brought me back," she says, shutting her eyes in an attempt to block out the memory of that terrible day.

When she opens her eyes, Brian is looking out at the lake and she thinks perhaps that makes it easier for her to tell him one more confession.

"You'll never know how much these last few weeks have meant to me." _Or how much you mean to me_, she says to herself. "But I ruin everything, Brian, and I don't want to ruin you. There's something perfect and whole about you, and I'm just . . . I'm neither of those things. I never was, really," she says, shaking her head dejectedly. "I know that I don't deserve your forgiveness, so I won't ask you for it. What I am asking is: Will I ever see you again?" she asks in a thin and tremulous voice.

In so many ways, Margaret feels as if she is suddenly eleven years old again – having just told her biggest secrets to a tall, handsome boy with warm brown eyes – and fearing the worst. It has been five months since that night in the Langston house, five months since she had very nearly let go. At the time there had been nothing left to lose. But as she looks at Brian standing silently at the end of the dock with his back to her, she knows that the situation is very different now. Because now there is something – something that had been so wonderful and wholly unexpected – for her to lose, and a feeling akin to despair settles in the pit of her stomach. She chews her bottom lip nervously as she watches Brian restlessly run a hand through his hair and work through the knots in his shoulders. Everything has gone eerily silent, and the sound of her furiously pounding heart echoes at a deafening volume in her ears. She doesn't know whether it's been several minutes or just a handful of seconds, but eventually Brian turns around and begins the slow, silent walk back from the end of the dock.

"I, um . . . I'll drive you home," he says as he walks past her, not looking at her.

She winces at his response and pulls her cardigan tighter to ward off the numbing chill that has suddenly overtaken her. She would have preferred his anger and accusations over his indifference; indifference reminds her far too much of Warren. And to be on the receiving end of Brian's indifference is devastating. Her eyes sting as they well with tears, and she feels a small sob rip through her chest as a single tear rolls down her cheek. And something inside crumbles away as she watches Brian walking away from her.

* * *

The drive back into town unfolds in a tense silence. Brian keeps his focus on the road, and Margaret stares out the window during the entire drive, her throat burning from the sting of rejection and from the effort of trying to keep the tears at bay. When they arrive at her building, she immediately gets out of the truck without another word or another look back. The strain of keeping herself from crying, mixed with the effort of climbing the stairs and the fact that Brian hadn't said anything or tried to stop her getting out of the truck, is almost enough to make her collapse in defeat right there in the stairwell. Her lungs feel like they're burning up inside her chest. By the time she makes it to her apartment and walks over to the window, Brian is gone.

She hasn't eaten anything since yesterday afternoon, and she knows she should eat something, but she has no appetite. Instead, she wraps herself in her old quilt and lies curled up on the couch all evening, staring at her phone as it sits silently on the coffee table, willing it to ring.

A few minutes after midnight, she knows it is a lost cause and that Brian won't be calling her again any time soon, if ever. Unsurprisingly, sleep eludes her as she stares out her bedroom window, and the intense ache she feels in her chest tonight feels painfully similar to the one she had experienced last autumn. When she had walked out of Brian's house after telling him to call off his business deal with Henry, instead of starting the engine and driving off, she had sat in the car with the key in the ignition and stared at Brian's front door for a solid minute. The ache had grown heavier with each passing second, and eventually she'd had to accept that Brian wasn't going to come after her.

At the time, her heart had ached because she thought Brian had never felt anything for her. Now, the pain feels even rawer. Because now she knows that whatever feelings Brian had ever felt towards her have been extinguished.

She isn't scheduled to work at the library the next morning, but she goes into work anyway, needing an escape from the maddening stillness of her apartment. After tossing and turning most of the night, she had drifted into a dreamless sleep for maybe half an hour at the most. When she wakes to another gray and unpleasantly cold morning, the silence of the apartment almost seems to echo. Grabbing her phone off the bedside table and seeing that there are no missed calls or messages, the dejection leaves her feeling as drained as chemotherapy had. She knows that her fatigue and her inability to shake off the chill that had crept into her bones yesterday afternoon are due to more than just two days' lack of sleep and food. She also knows that she cannot lie in bed all day, staring at the ceiling and letting her nerves fray to bits with waiting for the phone to ring.

When she walks into the library, Alex and Robin, though undoubtedly surprised to see her, are tactful enough not to comment. Margaret quietly goes about collecting the returned library books from the drop box and placing them back on the shelves. The tedious task keeps her hands and her mind occupied, but after a few hours, her efficiency leaves her with nothing else to do and she retreats to the empty break room. She's so lost in her melancholy that she doesn't notice her coffee has gone cold. Nor does she hear anything that's being said to her until Alex gently removes the coffee mug from her hands and replaces it with a freshly brewed one.

"I'd ask if you're alright, but it's obvious that you're not," Alex says, sounding genuinely concerned as she takes a seat across from Margaret. "Robin's pretty worried about you. You haven't moved from this spot for almost an hour now."

Margaret feels her body go tense with embarrassment. "I'm sorry. I know I've been really distracted the past couple days. I'm just . . ." her voice trails off.

She doesn't know what she feels. A part of her feels disgusted with herself, hating how unsteady her voice sounds and for her weakness. She feels like she can't trust herself not to break down in tears without any warning, at any moment. She cannot remember feeling this awful since her wedding day, and it only makes her feel even more ridiculous. She had been a naive girl of seventeen then. She is a grown woman now, so why is it that the words she is focusing all her strength on preventing from coming out in a tearful voice are "I'm just heartbroken"?

"Margaret," Alex says, her voice as nonchalant as always, "It's Saturday. It's not exactly like business is going gangbusters out there." Alex takes a sip of her coffee, and the way her eyes narrow slightly indicates that she has figured out what has Margaret so distraught. "He'll call, you know. After all, when a man looks at a woman the way Mr. Addison looks at you . . ."

Margaret smiles weakly at that and shakes her head slowly. "No, I-I really made a mess of things."

"Well then, that makes you the best person for the job of fixing it."

Under any other circumstance, Margaret would have appreciated the straightforwardness of those words. She doesn't know what it is about Alex that makes her feel like she can be honest with her. Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that Alex too has warm, brown eyes. Or perhaps it's how Alex never seems to get rattled, as if she is always so assured that things will just work themselves out. It is probably this calmness that explains why Robin admires Alex so much and has latched onto her. Usually, it is Alex's calmness that Margaret likes too. But in her currently agitated state, she suddenly finds Alex's nonchalance exasperating. She doesn't want to continue with this conversation any further and shakes her head dismissively.

"It doesn't matter anyway. I'll be fine. It's just one more disappointment to deal with. I'll get over it," she says curtly.

Alex arches an eyebrow at that, the flash of disappointment removing all traces of sympathy from her eyes. "Yeah, you're right. After a few weeks, things will settle back into the way they were. And you'll settle too. And that's downright disappointing," Alex says flatly, her voice completely sapped of its happy-go-lucky quality. "Because "fine" isn't anything to write home about. "Fine" is just familiar. And you've already been there, done that. So yeah, I have no doubt that you can always go back to being just "fine". But why would you want to?"

There is something jarringly similar about the way she feels now and the way she had felt standing on the dock at the lake yesterday afternoon. Alex drains the last of her coffee and gets up from the table, leaving Margaret sitting alone again in stunned silence. Alex may approach everything with a casual attitude, but she's never flippant. And Margaret had never realized how much Alex and Brian remind her of each other until now. She looks to the door where Alex stands looking at her with a half-smile.

"You're strong, Margaret, and that's admirable. But strength isn't the same thing as resilience. And life's nothing without that spark. And you know that," she says matter-of-factly before walking out the door.

When Margaret leaves the library that afternoon, the temperature has dropped, but she finds herself walking to the edge of town – to a place she has avoided since she returned for the first time.

* * *

The cemetery is deserted, with only the chirping of the goldfinches to break up the silence as Margaret takes a seat on the cold stone steps leading up to the Langston family plot. She had avoided coming here ever since she returned last fall, not wanting to face the irrefutable proof that she and Jacob had died. She had given her entire life to the Langstons, sacrificed her dreams and her happiness for their sake. But everything she had worked so hard to protect had disintegrated in the course of a single year.

She remembers waking up alone in the nearby woods the first time she returned. The pain in her abdomen was gone and so too was the bone-crushing fatigue. It wasn't until she made her way to the main road that she understood what had happened. The road and the trees had looked similar to how she remembered them, and yet it all felt wrong. And she knew she was no longer lying in a coma in the hospital. She wasn't simply dreaming.

When she arrived at the cemetery and saw the Langston mausoleum, somehow she had just known that her ashes were interred behind its doors. But the shock of realizing that she was a Returned, a demon herself, had been nothing compared to the sight of the statue standing beside the mausoleum. She had felt her whole body go numb when she saw that the boy in the statue was her beautiful little grandson. And when Jacob had appeared in the cemetery – still as young and as perfect as she remembered him, but now also a Returned – it had absolutely devastated her. She remembers telling Barbara that returning from the dead wasn't a second chance, but rather a punishment for past sins. If she hadn't truly believed in those words then, she believes them now.

She hears footsteps approaching, and her heart leaps into her throat because she knows exactly who those footsteps belong to. Brian takes a seat beside her, and the light blue color of his shirt stands out so vividly against the grayness that surrounds them. He smiles apologetically as he holds out a cup of coffee to her.

"House blend with one packet of brown sugar," he says without any trace of anger in his voice.

She chews her bottom lip nervously as she stares at the cardboard cup in her hands, feeling completely at a loss for words. In some ways, she is flattered that he had memorized the way she takes her coffee. And at the same time, his thoughtfulness doesn't surprise her at all. She can feel him watching her, and she takes in a deep, shaky breath before meeting his gaze.

"Do you hate me?" she asks timidly.

It feels as if his heart is slowly shattering as he takes in her appearance. Margaret has always been slender, but there is a gauntness and a pallor to her today that he finds worrisome. She looks like she hasn't eaten or slept in days. But it is the anguish in her eyes – red rimmed and dulled with fatigue – that completely destroys him. It's obvious that she's been crying, and he's never hated himself more than he does in this moment. "No, of course not," he says soothingly, taking her hand in his. "I like you too much to ever hate you."

As comforting as it is to hear him say that, she can only smile wanly and shake her head slowly in disbelief. "But it was all my fault: the death of those factory workers, what happened afterward . . . everything."

"Margaret –"

"It was!" she insists. "If I hadn't been there that day, maybe my dad would have done something differently. I don't know what Edward Langston said to him that afternoon – if he threatened to harm me or if he guilted my dad into thinking about my future. But either way, I was leverage. It was because of me that those twelve men died, why your mother had to grow up without her father, why you didn't get to know your grandfather," she says, her voice faltering.

"You shouldn't waste your sympathies on William Kirk. He doesn't deserve them," Brian says abruptly, and his voice has never sounded so full of disdain, so completely devoid of its characteristic warmth.

He lets go of her hand, scrubbing his hands over his face as he lets out a deep sigh. "There's something I haven't told you . . . about William," he says. "I think he let go. And I think it's because of me. Because of what I said to him."

He thinks back to the last time he saw William. He had been sitting at the kitchen table, staring at the check Henry had given him the day before and trying to devise a way to get himself out of their business deal. Henry was so determined to get the factory up and running again that there was only one thing that would change his mind: learning the truth about what his family had covered up for almost eight decades. But exposing the truth also meant exposing his and William's scheme. And it meant losing Margaret forever.

But half a million dollars – though still a significant sum of money – isn't what it used to be, and Brian had done well for himself; he could easily give William the amount he was after and pass it off as Henry Langston's money. He decided he would take William back to L.A. with him and either mail Henry his check back or simply never cash it. And William would be none the wiser. But then the doorbell had rung and Brian had opened the door to find yet another Langston standing on his doorstep. The younger Langston son had demanded that Brian hand over Henry's check and leave Arcadia immediately, and Brian had been more than happy to comply with both requests.

"When I gladly handed over Henry's check to Fred, William was absolutely enraged. He called me a traitor, a disgrace to the Kirk name. But as insulted as I was, a kind of clarity came over me the moment he said those things. I instantly stopped referring to him as "Grandpa" and saw him for who he really was - a revenge-obsessed stranger who just happened to have the same name as my long-deceased grandfather. In that moment, I realized that William had never once asked about his family. He never asked me what became of his widow or about his daughter. He never asked about my mom, Margaret. Not once. He didn't care about his family. It was always just about the money. And yet, he had the nerve to call me the disloyal one. I think it was his indifference towards two people I love very much that turned me completely against him. And I'm so glad that my mom doesn't have any real memory of him, and I was determined that he would never see her again. I told him I didn't give a damn about him anymore and that he wouldn't be coming back to L.A. with me or up to Seattle at Thanksgiving.

And then I blindsided him when I told him about my Uncle Charlie. You see, my Grandma Lily was pregnant when William died. She gave birth to a son only a few weeks after the fire. I was so angry with William that I almost felt a sick sense of pleasure in telling him that Charlie had died last year. And I'll never forget the way William's face collapsed when he realized he would never get to meet his son.

I should have stopped there, but I was just so angry – about what he had said, about the whole situation, about how I thought I'd never see you again – that I just unleashed on him. I told him about how my Grandma had remarried a man named Theodore Walsh. Grandpa Teddy was the man she always referred to as the love of her life, and he adopted my mom and my uncle. William's children didn't grow up as Kirks – they grew up as Rebecca and Charlie Walsh. Grandpa Teddy was the man they called "Dad", the man my brothers and I called "Grandpa". So when William said I was a disgrace to the Kirk name, I just scoffed and told him I was never even a Kirk to begin with.

I told William, 'I spent my whole life wondering what it would be like to actually meet you. But now that I have, I see that I didn't miss out on anything by not having you in my life. And I'll likely never waste another thought on you. Teddy Walsh was my Grandpa, not you. Maybe you dying in that fire was the best thing you ever did for the family you never deserved, because all of our lives turned out just fine without you.' He stormed out of the house, and I got on a plane to L.A. that night."

He lets out a deep sigh, hanging his head in shame. "Yesterday, when you told me about what makes the Returned disappear, I suddenly knew what had happened to William. That's what I was upset about. I was disgusted with myself, because I was at my absolute worst when I had told William that everyone was better off without him. So how could I ever judge you for something I'm also guilty of? It doesn't matter that I didn't know what consequences my words would have. I wanted him gone, and I'm glad that my family will never know what a horrible person William Kirk really was."

They sit quietly for a minute and she watches his expression grow increasingly pensive the longer he stares at the Langston mausoleum and the factory in the distance. "I can't stop thinking about something you said yesterday. Maybe that's how I knew to find you here," he says, turning to look at her. "Did you really die again?"

He sees the faraway and haunted look that creeps into her eyes before she quickly nods her head.

"And both times . . . you knew you were dying?" he asks, barely able to get the words out.

Suddenly, it's as if a heavy weight has been chained to her and she is being dragged to the bottom of a cold, rushing river. It's the same feeling that had struck her when she received the horrific news that Henry had died. She tries to maintain her composure, but she can feel her entire frame slowly rocking back and forth. She tries to shut out the horrible memories of both of her deaths, but the inescapability of the past completely overpowers her.

She remembers how helpless she had felt during those weeks when she had lay in a coma in the hospital. Her resolve had slowly weakened the more she dwelled on the disconcerting notion that, even if she somehow managed to pull through the coma, the cancer could always come back. She didn't have the strength live with that possibility always hanging over her, or to face any more doctor's appointments or surgeries or multiple rounds of chemotherapy. But it was never hearing Fred's voice and believing that her younger son hated her so much that he never once came to visit her that had destroyed what little fight was left in her. And she had faded away.

Then the day came when James Goodman had walked into the government facility, threatening to harm her family unless she told him how to make the Returned, specifically Rachael and her unborn child, disappear. As she swallowed the poisoned wine, she knew that, no matter how awful it would surely be, she had to let the poison take its course.

And it had been awful. She had felt like her windpipe was slowly being crushed as her body convulsed on the floor. As the poison ran through her veins, it had felt like her entire body was burning up from within. Though she had her doubts about whether Preacher James was truly capable of all the things he claimed, she was certain that if she gave in to the temptation of letting go, she would be lost for good. There was simply no other option than to suffer through the excruciating pain. So she had kept repeating Jacob's name over and over to herself to keep her mind from going blank. The feeling of being burned alive eventually gave way to a piercing coldness, as her heart came to a stop and every last bit of air emptied out of her lungs. She had closed her eyes, feeling a single tear run down her cheek and splash on the cold floor. And then the darkness had overtaken her.

The feeling of a single tear running down her cheek now snaps her back to the present, and she suddenly realizes that the reason she feels so warm is because Brian is holding her. He can feel how hard she's shaking, so he just cradles her head against his chest, reassuring her that "It's okay. You're safe now. I've got you. I'm right here, sweetheart."

She can't stop the tears from falling, and she buries her face in Brian's chest as her sobs rip through her. Her fingers curl into his shirt, clinging to him tightly as he tenderly kisses her hair. And slowly but surely her sobs subside, and the unpleasant memories dissolve into thin air. She's finally able to catch her breath again, and she breathes Brian in as deeply as she can. She feels slightly embarrassed by just how desperately she had needed to be held, but being wrapped in Brian's arms makes her feel safer and calmer than she can remember feeling in the longest time.

When she feels steady enough to sit up straight again, he holds her face in his hands, gently sweeping his thumbs over her cheeks to wipe away any last traces of tears.

"I guess I owe that preacher a huge thank you, don't I?" he asks. The way his voice trembles and the way he looks at her like he's terrified of losing her are almost enough to cause her to break down in sobs all over again. Except for Jacob, no one else had seemed the least bit saddened by the news that she had died again. Until now.

"I'm so sorry, Margaret," he says, his voice thick with emotion.

"For what?" she asks, her voice cracking. "It's not like any of it was your fault."

"I know that. It's just that when you really care about someone, you find yourself apologizing for all sorts of things. Because I think you're wonderful, and I'm so sorry that the world isn't always wonderful too," he tells her, taking her hands in his. "God! I don't want anything bad to ever happen to you."

Her eyes well with fresh tears, and she thinks back to all the times those exact words have been said to her. Ben had said them to her once. So had Jacob. And now Brian.

"I'm so sorry that you've spent the last day thinking I was angry with you or that I hated you, because nothing could be further from the truth. I'm so sorry that I don't always react the right way. Or right away. I'm not perfect, Margaret. I'm just an ordinary guy whose life took the most extraordinary and unexpected turn. I'll never be able to explain it: why didn't I fly back to L.A. as soon as my meetings wrapped up? Or why didn't I just stay in St. Louis through the weekend? I don't know why I ended up in Arcadia last fall," he says, holding her hands a little tighter. "But I'm so glad that I did. And I know exactly why I came back," he tells her. He looks deep into her eyes, and the raw honesty she sees in his eyes heals her hurting heart.

"I like the woman I saw in the photographs, and I like the woman I had dinner with in November. And I'm absolutely crazy about the woman I've been lucky enough to see almost every day for the last eleven weeks." He combs his fingers through her hair and kisses her forehead before resting his forehead against hers. "She's the most extraordinary thing in my life."

She's so overcome with affection for him that it renders her speechless. In the short time she's known him, the relationship they've only just begun to forge has already become one of the most important things in her life. He makes her want things she had never wanted before, makes her believe in things she had stopped believing were possible. She whispers his name and reaches out to caress his cheek, slowly letting out a deep and shuddering breath. He leans into her touch and softly kisses his way down her palm, the exquisite scent of her perfume intensifying with each kiss. And when his lips discover the delicate skin inside her wrist for the first time, he feels like he's come home.

He gives her the most heartwarming smile, and the somber mood that had hung over the day immediately lifts.

"What do you say we go catch a baseball game?" he asks. The twinkle in his eyes and the lightness in his voice make her truly smile for the first time that day, and the sensation of relief finally washes over her.

* * *

The sun is setting when they arrive at the baseball field. Brian carries the yellow blanket in one arm and holds out his other hand to Margaret like it's the most natural thing in the world. It seems all of Arcadia has decided to come out to tonight's game, and Margaret smiles to herself when she spots her family sitting together in the first row of the bleachers. Jenny is sitting on Marty's lap, talking excitedly as everyone listens in amusement and passes a bucket of popcorn between themselves. Though she knows it may still be a long time before she will be welcome to join them, tonight the sight of her loved ones – all doing well and all gathered together to cheer on Jacob – gladdens her heart. When he sees the two of them walking hand-in-hand, Fred playfully elbows Maggie and tilts his head in Margaret and Brian's direction. Within seconds, it is obvious that the Langstons are all commenting on the unexpected sight of Margaret showing up on Brian's arm tonight, but it does not bother her in the least. To be the woman walking on Brian's arm makes her feel exceedingly proud and deeply humbled at the same time.

They make their way up to the empty top row of the bleachers, relishing the chance to have this evening mostly to themselves. Brian spreads the yellow blanket across their laps, and Margaret slips her hand into the crook of his arm, leaning into him slightly. Brian holds her other hand in his, occasionally losing himself in exploring the lines of her palm and the textures of her skin and committing every detail he can to memory. Every now and then, Jacob looks up to the top row of the bleachers, and his sweet face lights up when he spots the two of them smiling back at him. Even Fred looks happy, though perhaps a little too amused, to see his mother looking so at ease every time he turns around to sneak a peek at her during the course of game. She hugs Brian's arm a little tighter and a smile forms on his lovely lips as he leans over and kisses her temple. She cannot begin to explain how everything had become so effortless between them, nor can she think of a better way to spend a Saturday evening; the fact that Jacob's team easily wins the game is just icing on the cake.

They walk hand-in-hand through the park after the game. The chill in the night air, coupled with the warmth that always seems to radiate off Brian, draws Margaret a little closer to him. He drapes his arm around her shoulders, and she leans into him as he walks her back to her building. They walk at a leisurely pace, neither of them quite ready for the evening to come to an end.

When they arrive at her building, she stands on the first step so that she is almost at eye level with him. He gently lifts her chin and looks deep into those eyes he loves so much. He feels like the luckiest man in the world to have been able to see her eyes in so many different lights – in a quiet coffee shop in the early morning light, in the golden glow of sunset, in the soft glow of a candlelit dinner. Tonight he is mesmerized again as he looks at her eyes, shimmering like sapphires in the pale light of a full moon. The wind is blowing lightly, and he sweeps a stray lock of her hair away from her face.

"So, will I see you again?" he asks, and a dazzling smile slowly spreads across her face as she nods. He wraps his arms around her in a warm embrace, feeling instantly and completely calmed when he breathes in the scent of her perfume and feels her delicate fingers slowly curl into the hair at the nape of his neck.

"You called me 'sweetheart' earlier," she says softly. He leans back slightly to look at her face, his arms still loosely wrapped around her small waist.

"Yeah I did," he says, looking somewhat bashful. "Do you hate it?"

Other than her dad, Brian is the only person who has ever addressed her with any term of endearment. She smiles and shakes her head slowly. "No, I definitely don't hate it. Quite the opposite, actually."

He grins at that. "Well, that's good. Because I'm hoping I'll have the chance to call you that many, many more times."

"I hope so too," she replies, her voice low and slightly flirtatious. "Good night, Brian," she whispers.

He gives her a charming smile as he takes his leave. He walks a few steps before suddenly stopping and turning on his heel. She is still standing on the front steps of her building, and her heart flutters as she watches him walking back to her. Without any preamble, his fingertips slide up her neck, gently pulling her towards him so he can whisper in her ear.

"I'm absolutely crazy about you, Margaret. And I'll still feel the same way tomorrow." He presses a warm kiss to her cheek. "Sweet dreams, sweetheart," he whispers, leaving her breathless and swooning slightly.

Hours later, she still feels as if she is floating on a cloud, and she knows that she won't be able to sleep tonight. The last two nights, she had been so racked with apprehension that sleep had stood no chance of finding her. Tonight, she cannot sleep because she is humming with the anticipation of seeing Brian again tomorrow and eager for tomorrow to begin right away. She stands on her balcony and finds it impossible to stop her eyes from filling with tears.

Brian had chosen her. Even before he had met her, he had wanted her. Even after she had told him the awful truth about herself and about her family, he hadn't stopped wanting her. He could have been anywhere else, with anyone else. And yet he was here, having gladly given up his picture-perfect life in California to be in small-town Arcadia. All because of her. And he'd been waiting for her ever since. She knows that it's now her turn to take a leap of faith. She drifts in and out of sleep for the next few hours, and when the sunrise is an hour away, she suddenly has the courage to tell Brian the answer to the question he had asked her last November. She dials Brian's number, and when he answers the phone, the clarity of his voice lets her know that he hasn't slept either.

"Do you have any plans for breakfast?" she asks expectantly, and she can almost hear him smiling through the phone when he cheerfully asks, "Where and when?"

She waits outside her building for him, shivering from both the cold and from the eagerness to see him. When he finally arrives and says hello in that slightly breathless way of his, she briefly wonders if she is actually still asleep and dreaming.

They use the drive-thru at Common Grounds for the first time that morning, eager not to waste a single minute of their day. Sitting at the last red light at the edge of town, Brian reaches over and intertwines his fingers with hers. She studies his face for a moment before unbuckling her seat belt. She folds back the center console and slides into the jump seat, keen to be closer to him. His lips are slightly parted, his breath catching in his throat, and he feels positively euphoric at having her so close. He slowly runs his fingers through her perfect hair and tells her, "My God, you're beautiful." She slides into his embrace, leans her head against his shoulder, and closes her eyes when she feels his warm lips brush against her forehead.

The light turns green, and they drive out of Arcadia.

* * *

They arrive at the lake a few minutes before the sunrise. A light mist is rising from the lake, and as Margaret walks a few paces behind Brian, the quiet morning takes on a dreamlike quality. Her heart is beating rapidly, but her courage and her hopefulness grow with each step. She sets down their coffees and takes a deep breath before closing the small distance that separates her from Brian. She slips her hand into his and the two of them stand at the end of the dock, silently looking east towards the dawn. The slight chill in the air causes her to shiver, and Brian unfurls the yellow blanket, silently enveloping the two of them in its warmth. Gently, he tucks a lock of her hair behind her ear, his index finger tracing the shell of her ear, and she can feel his warmth radiating off him.

"Is this okay?" he asks in a voice just above a whisper.

She nods, her eyes remaining focused on the small area of exposed skin just inside the open collar of his shirt. "More than okay," she assures him, as she looks up to find him looking at her the same way he had three days ago, just before their lips had met for the first time. She tentatively places her hands on his chest, and she can see the wonder and the wanting so clearly in his warm brown eyes. Her right hand stays on his chest, allowing her to feel the changing rhythms of his heartbeat, as her other hand slides up over his shoulder and her fingers curl into the hair at the nape of his neck. She raises herself onto her tiptoes, and their lips finally meet again in a long, lingering kiss. And when he pulls her closer, she opens her mouth to him, letting him in. The whole world just fades away as she listens to the sound of Brian breathing her in, so deep – creating another memory of her, a memory of the two of them. Through some rare and awesome trick of the universe, their lives had been running parallel to each other's ever since last autumn. Their paths had intersected but had never quite merged into one . . . until now.

When their kiss comes to an end, she can feel the two of them exhaling as one, finally able to let out the breath they've both been holding since November. The first rays of the rising sun are dancing on the deep blue waters of the lake, but it is the sparkle in Margaret's incredible blue eyes that leaves Brian speechless. She rests her hands on his chest, and he kisses her forehead before resting his forehead against hers.

"So, how is this going to work?" she asks softly.

He smiles at the beautiful woman in his arms, caressing her cheek as he says, "I don't know. I just know that it will work. Because I know how I feel about you."

She looks at him with such tenderness and the unmistakable vulnerability when she says "I don't deserve you, Brian" in a trembling voice breaks his heart anew.

"You're right about that. You deserve someone really great. But if you're willing to settle for an ordinary guy like me . . ."

She feels a laugh bubbling up inside her, and she knows there's no use in trying to suppress it. She leans her forehead against his, and he kisses the tip of her nose as he commits this moment to memory: the first time – though he's determined it absolutely won't be the last time – he'd made Margaret laugh. His fingertips slowly trace along her jawline, and he gently lifts her chin so that he can look into her eyes when he tells her, "I'm absolutely crazy about you, Margaret. And I'll try every day to be someone really great. For you. I promise, sweetheart."

His voice is as warm and as gentle as his kisses. And she believes him.

"So," he says, taking her hand in his and running his thumb over the soft skin of her knuckles. "You and me? Let's give it a shot?" he asks, placing a feather-light kiss on the back of her hand, his eyes never leaving hers.

She thinks back to the question Brian had asked her all those months ago: What is it you want, Margaret? Everything she has learned about Brian – his patience, his kindness, his sincerity, his generosity, his thoughtfulness, his joyfulness, his forgiveness – has only reinforced what she had somehow just always known, but had been too afraid to admit. It has taken her a long time to get here, and there are so many rivers still to cross, but Brian had always been part of the answer. I want us.

As she watches the sky changing hues with Brian that morning, it does not escape her notice that today is Easter Sunday, and she feels as if she has truly come back to life. Perhaps third time's the charm, she thinks to herself, feeling completely overwhelmed by the knowledge that someone so perfect and whole had chosen her. She raises herself onto her tiptoes and presses a warm kiss to Brian's cheek. She breathes in the scent of his aftershave, and when he pulls her into a tight embrace and his fingers tangle in her hair, she can feel the relief and the joy in his breaths. Looking into Brian's warm brown eyes, the heartfelt and hopeful look she sees there makes her feel calm, makes her believe that anything is truly possible.

The sun rises over the verdant eastern hills as their lips find each other's once again. And she says yes.


End file.
